THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


We  Discover  New  England 


THE    HATTLK    MOXl'.MKXT,    OI.I)    BKXXIXGTOX 


We    Discover 

New  England 


Drawings    by  Walter    Hale 


New  York:   Dodd,    Mead 
&  Company  Publishers  1915 


COPYBIGHT,   1915,   BT 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 


COPYKISHT,  1915,  BT 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 


Contents 


CHAPTSR  PAOK 

I    "PLENTY  OF  ROOM  IN  THE  BACK"       ...  1 

II    THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY  ...  8 

III  ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRE^ 28 

IV  AMONG   THE    HILLS   AND   COLONIAL  TRADI- 

TIONS         45 

V    I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS  AND  THE  ILLUS- 
TRATOR DISCOVERS  A  JOKE         ....  73 

VI    CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS  101 

VII    SCENERY  EVERYWHERE,  ESPECIALLY  "WITH 

THE  TOP   DOWN" 132 

VIII    ADVENTURES     OF     THE     ROAD     WITH     THE 

WHITE  MOUNTAINS  ON  AHEAD  ....  155 

IX    MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 180 

X    LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 200 

XI    DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST  .       .       .       .229 

XII    THE    NORTH    SHORE    AND    THE    BREECHES 

BIBLE 242 

XIII  AMONG  THE  PURITANS 262 

XIV  A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN     ...  281 


96829O 


Illustrations 

THE  BATTLE  MONUMENT,  OLD  BENNINGTON    Frontispiece 

JACINO 
FAOB 

FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 14 

THE  SUNKEN  POOL,  WESTCHESTER  COUNTY  .  .  32 
A  COUNTRY  HOUSE  AT  LENOX 54, 

THE    CHURCH    THROUGH    THE  TREES,    WILLIAMS- 
TOWN         68 

THE  MILL  POND,  SOUTH  SHAFTESBURY  ....     84 

A  GARDEN  AT  CORNISH 116 

FROM  THE  HOTEL  ROOF  GARDEN,  BURLINGTON  .  150 
THE  ROAD  TO  THE  EAST  THROUGH  THE  WINOOSKI 

VALLEY,  VERMONT 164 

THE  OLD  TOWN  OF  ST.  JOHNSBURY 174 

CRAWFORD  NOTCH 186 

POLAND   SPRING 212 

THE  LONGFELLOW  HOME,  PORTLAND       ....     218 

NEARING  PORTSMOUTH  HARBOR 230 

A    DOORWAY,   NEWBURYPORT 238 

DRYING  OUT  SAIL,  GLOUCESTER 250 

PARK  STREET,  BOSTON 260 

THE  COURT  HOUSE  AT  TAUNTON 268 

A  BIT  OF  THE  SHORE  LINE  AT  NEWPORT  .  .  .278 
CENTER  CHURCH,  NEW  HAVEN  GREEN  .  .  .  .302 
THE  ROYAL  JAMES  INN,  NORWALK 310 

MAP  OF  THE  ROUTE  FROM  NEW  YORK  THROUGH 
THE  BERKSHIRES  TO  LAKE  CHAMPLAIN,  EAST 
TO   THE   WHITE  MOUNTAINS   AND   DOWN   THE 
COAST  FROM  PORTLAND  TO  THE  SOUND  ...        1 


We  Discover  New  England 


^^w       •' 

Mvww*;*  xoioi^ 


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e 

si 


,  jMf$ 

•  .,tt  i^M^-Jy 

O, 


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CHAPTER  I 

"Plenty  of  Room  in  the  Back" 

PREPARATIONS  for  a  motor  trip  go  through  three 
phases :  the  packing  of  too  little,  of  too  much,  and 
just  enough. 

In  those  days  prior  to  the  start — those  ecstatic 
days'  of  picking  routes  and  poring  over  maps  on 
the  dining-room  table  (the  air  heavy  with  "  look 
out,  you're  tearing  it,"  or  "  fold  it  in  its  creases  ") 
— the  man  of  the  party  asks  the  woman  of  it, 
severely,  just  how  much  baggage  she  must  carry. 

And  he  is  pleased  when  she  tells  him,  proving 
her  effort  to  confine  herself  to  essentials.  Some- 
times a  dress  rehearsal  is  held  and  everything  goes 
into  the  automobile  trunk  with  room  to  spare.  "  Of 
course,"  she  says  to  him  after  he  has  praised  her, 
"  I  must  have  a  bag  for  bottles  on  the  outside." 

He  grants  that,  for  he  must  have  a  suitcase — 
and  there  is  the  chauffeur's  bag.  But  they  com- 
fort themselves  that  there  is  plenty  of  room  in 
the  back. 

"  Plenty  of  room  in  the  back  "  has  rhythm  to 
it,  which  is  advantageous  if  one  were  to  set  it 


"  PLENTY  OF  ROOM  IN  THE  BACK  " 

to  music  and  make  a  pathetic  song  of  it,  but  dan- 
gerous to  keep  running  through  one's  head  when 
the  packing  begins. 

It  is  amazing  how  quickly  an  automobile  trunk 
fills  up  when  it  was  comparatively  empty  at  the 
dress  rehearsal.  But  then,  in  our  case,  the  shoes 
had  been  forgotten.  I  could  stop  talking  about 
motoring  right  here  and  fill  the  rest  of  the  book 
with  what  I  think  of  shoes,  if  my  publisher  would 
permit. 

Shoes  are  as  hard  as  the  heart  of  a  coquette. 
They  are  harder,  for  in  time  the  coquette's  heart 
will  become  worn  and  pliable — like  a  beefsteak 
beaten  into  tenderness.  But  no  matter  how  old  and 
worn  a  shoe  may  become,  it  never  gives  in  an  inch. 

I  argued  with  the  Illustrator's  shoes  as  I  was 
endeavoring  to  poke  them  into  crevasses  better 
fitted  to  hold  a  shaving  brush.  They  were  so 
ancient  that  they  were  not  valuable  to  him,  they 
were  already  trembling  on  the  brink  of  being 
given  to  the  elevator  boy,  and  I  told  them,  unless 
they  made  some  concession  and  "  let  in  "  a  little, 
they  could  not  make  the  trip  through  New  Eng- 
land with  us.  Still  they  did  not  let  in  a  lift  of 
the  heel. 

Even  so,  I  think  I  could  have  crowded  them 

down  had  not  W at  the  last  moment,  while 

my  back  was  turned,  thrown  in  something  hastily. 


"  PLENTY  OF  ROOM  IN  THE  BACK  " 

Something  that  made  a  louder  noise  than  he  had 
expected,  for  I  turned  back  and  discovered  that 
the  few  corners  left,  which  I  have  reserved  for 
evening  gowns,  were  replete  with  golf  balls. 

And  whatever  I  have  said  about  the  grievous 
footgear  goes  double  in  reference  to  those  white 
implacable  marbles.  Not  content  with  the  refusal 
to  compress,  the  golf  balls  refuse  also  to  remain 
in  any  fixed  place.  They  creep  up  shirt  sleeves 
and  roll  out  of  trousers  and  pop  at  you  from 
handkerchief  cases  without  ever  crying  "  fore,"  or 
exhibiting  any  sportsmanlike  propensities. 

I  remember  once  sending  a  large  rubber  plant 
to  the  florist's  for  the  summer,  and  receiving, 
when  the  autumn  came,  a  small  miserable  affair 
which  the  man  claimed  was  mine.  And  when  I 
exclaimed  over  the  condition  of  the  plant,  I  recall 
his  contention  that  it  was  a  rubber  plant,  and  very 
apt  to  shrink.  But  golf  balls  will  not  do  this, 
and  it  is  an  everlasting  wonder  to  me  that  they 
are  selected  for  their  extreme  elasticity. 

Since  there  was  "  plenty  of  room  in  the  back," 
however,  we  managed  to  get  all  the  starched 
clothes  into  the  trunk,  and  such  parti-coloured  gar- 
ments as  might  not  occasion  comment  if  we  hung 
them  over  the  brass  rail  originally  designed  for 
rugs. 

And  at   last   the   tremulous   morning   arrived 


"  PLENTY  OF  ROOM  IN  THE  BACK  " 

when  we  were  to  make  the  start.  The  car  was 
before  the  door,  the  trunk  sat  upon  and  strapped, 
and  mysterious  creatures  began  going  down  in 
the  elevator — creatures  of  action,  although  there 
was  no  evidence  of  legs  or  heads,  only  two  arms 
encircling  masses  of  coats  and  sweaters  and  rugs, 
while  they  bumped  along  on  the  floor  two  bags 
of  golf  clubs.  When  the  woolly  procession 
reached  the  pavement,  the  arms  relaxed,  gar- 
ments were  shed  upon  the  grass  plot,  and  the 
faces  of  the  cook,  the  Illustrator,  and  myself  once 
more  saw  the  light  of  day. 

Our  chauffeur,  a  dressy  young  man,  had  added 
his  suitcase  to  the  impedimenta — a  very  large 
suitcase — and  was  caught  in  the  act  of  tying  a 
second  bag  to  the  tool  chest  with  odd  pieces  of 
string.  He  admitted  that  it  was  his  other  hat, 
and  at  this  commendable  effort  to  make  a  good 
appearance  I  offered  him  a  place  in  the  circular 
hatbox,  which  was  strapped  into  the  tires  on  the 
other  side  the  auto. 

Both  W and  I  had  extra  headgear,  I  gen- 
erously sharing  the  box  with  him,  for  it  had  been 
a  present  to  me  with  the  understanding  that  it 
was  for  my  hats — and  my  hats  alone. 

Since  it  was  my  hatbox,  it  was  unreasonable 
in  him  to  make  objections  to  inserting  the  chauf- 
feur's derby.  And  when  I  finally  overcame  his 


"PLENTY  OF  ROOM  IN  THE  BACK" 

prejudices  he  urged  me  to  take  a  trip  on  the 
elevator  while  he  opened  the  box  himself.  And 
this  so  aroused  my  suspicions  that  I  was  quite 
prepared  for  what  I  discovered  twisted  among  our 
millinery. 

They  were  inner-tubes,  many  of  them,  tubes 
that  had  refused  to  go  under  the  seat,  and  had 
been  given  this  place  of  honour  probably  when  I 
was  masked  by  the  coats  and  rugs.  The  chauf- 
feur had  assisted  him  gladly  in  this  overt  act, 
but  was  now  extremely  anxious  to  get  the  tubes 
out,  so  that  they  would  not  crush  his  derby. 

He  was  about  to  suggest  that  there  was  Plenty 
of  Room  in  the  Back  for  the  tires,  but  the  words 
froze  in  his  throat  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  that  com- 
modious quarter,  where  we  were  to  harbour  such 
things  as  would  not  go  in  the  trunk. 

The  elevator  and  telephone  attendants  had  been 
engaged  upon  throwing  in  the  bags  and  wraps 
while  we  were  not  looking  (unmindful  of  loud, 
persistent  ringing  at  their  posts  of  duty),  and 
their  task  completed,  we  saw  no  evidence  of  back 
seat,  or  any  space  between,  or  any  brass  rail. 

Only  a  mountain  of  fuzzy  things,  a  few  um- 
brella heads,  and  the  gleam  of  leather  bags  met 
our  gaze.  On  the  top  of  the  mountain  perched 
my  typewriter,  and  this  I  immediately  seized.  It 
was  plain  to  all  assembled  that  there  was  no  use 


"  PLENTY  OF  ROOM  IN  THE  BACK  " 

in  the  typewriter  going  along  if  I  couldn't  go. 
And  it  was  just  as  plain  that  I  couldn't  go  if 
all  these  wraps  were  to  take  the  trip. 

W was  very  fond  of  some  of  his  coats,  and 

he  might  have  given  them  preference  had  it  not 
been  necessary  for  me  to  accompany  him  in  order 
to  write  this  book.  (Although,  as  he  is  saying 
now,  looking  over  my  shoulder,  if  I  am  going  to 
spend  so  much  time  on  ourselves  and  so  little 
on  the  route  and  the  historical  interest  along  the 
way  no  one  will  want  the  book  anyway. 
And  I  have  had  to  promise  him  to  begin  shortly 
to  speak  of  these  things.)  But  I  must  confess 
that  he  behaved  very  handsomely  about  the  dis- 
carding of  his  effects. 

Stimulated  by  his  unselfishness,  I  too  raked 
out  a  scarlet  coat,  a  foot  muff,  a  lace  parasol,  a 
fur  stole — everything,  indeed,  but  my  warm 
sweater,  a  raincoat,  the  jacket  of  my  suit,  and 
the  duster  I  was  wearing.  The  Illustrator  was 
correspondingly  sacrificial,  and  for  a  summer's 
trip,  even  through  the  White  Mountains,  we 
found  this  quite  sufficient. 

It  would  seem  that  we  were  about  to  start. 
On  our  previous  motoring  experiences,  limited — 
if  one  can  use  the  word — to  traversing  Europe, 
there  was  a  formula  of  inquiry  that  prefaced  each 
day's  run: 


"  PLENTY  OF  ROOM  IN  THE  BACK  " 

"  Have  you  got  the  Baedeker?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Have  you  got  the  dictionary?" 

"  Yes." 

"Got  the  international  pass?" 

"  Yes." 

"The  Letter  of  Credit?" 

"Oh,  yes" 

"  Well  then,  we'll  go  on." 

To-day,  as  a  matter  of  habit,  he  again  paused 
before  letting  in  the  clutch.  But  he  had  need  of 
no  such  anxious  preface  to  our  run.  And,  quite 
unexpectedly,  we  found  the  hush  of  the  moment  a 
thrilling  one.  For  the  first  time  we  were  going 
into  our  own  country.  Going  into  it  "  for  better 
or  worse,"  like  a  marriage  ceremony.  With 
something  of  the  shyness  of  a  bride  and  groom 
walking  down  the  church  aisle,  we  left  the  altar 
of  our  home — and  swept  into  the  unknown. 


CHAPTER  II 

The  Washington  Irving  Country 

THEBE  are  two  ways  of  getting  out  of  New  York 
into  New  England,  and  whichever  road  you 
choose,  friends  will  say  you  had  better  have 
taken  the  other. 

That  is  the  worst  of  friends.  They  combat 
you  at  every  turn,  and  because  they  are  friends 
you  have  to  call  their  efforts  kindly  when  they 
are  purely  officious.  They  will  also  tell  you  what 
to  do  after  you  have  started,  the  best  roads,  the 
best  hotels,  and,  if  they  are  New  Yorkers,  the 
quickest  way  of  getting  back  to  the  city.  It  is 
amazing  how  a  man  will  pick  a  bad  road  and 
declare  it  is  good  for  the  reason  that  he  has  gone 
over  it.  One  would  think  his  automobile  was  a 
steam-roller. 

One  is  not  a  prey  to  friends  alone  in  the  pick- 
ing of  a  tour.  Every  hotel  brochure  in  every  part 
of  the  country  can  choose  for  you  a  succession 
of  good  roads  that,  by  some  curious  circumstance, 
lead  directly  to  the  hotel  advertised. 

You  can  take  either  one  of  the  two  ways  of 
getting  out  of  New  York,  you  can  go  miles  in 

-e-8-f- 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

the  opposite  direction  from  the  hotel,  yet  there 
are  maps  in  the  brochure  to  prove  that  you  can 
cross  country,  jump  stone  fences,  ford  brooks, 
and,  with  the  greatest  ease,  end  in  that  hostelry 
for  the  night.  Indeed,  there  is  no  other  place  on 
the  map  where  one  can  stop.  It  is  amazing  to 
unfold  a  large  crackling  piece  of  paper  dotted  with 
towns,  and  find  all  roads  leading,  like  a  spider's 
web,  to  the  single  hotel  which  our  vast  country 
affords.  I  know  of  one  fat  spider  (i.e.,  hotel 
proprietor)  who  can  produce  no  way  of  either 
going  or  coming  from  New  England  save  past 
his  house. 

I  would  advise  laying  aside  the  pamphlets 
issued  by  a  single  hostelry,  or  a  combination  of 
them.  Rather,  decide  upon  what  you  want  to 
see,  buy  road  maps,  compiled  by  the  automobile 
associations,  be  guided  by  their  advice  as  to  your 
stopping-places,  or,  better,  motor  till  you  are 
tired,  and  take  your  chance  at  the  inn.  Auto- 
mobiling,  remember,  is  a  sport,  and  we  are  short 
sports  if  we  do  not  take  long  chances. 

We  chose  our  route  for  the  reason  that  it 
comprised  as  great  a  diversity  of  scenery  as  one 
could  find  in  any  clime,  and  all  of  it  compressed 
in  a  much  smaller  area  than  any  other  country 
could  offer.  It  should  make  a  particular  appeal 
to  the  automobilists,  for  it  can  be  done  quickly, 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

as  a  purely  motoring  stunt,  or  slowly,  as  a  sum- 
mer vacation. 

In  ten  days,  or  less  or  more,  one  can  enjoy 
the  mighty  Hudson,  sweep  through  the  fashion- 
able Berkshire  hills,  peep  into  the  lives  of  the 
Vermont  and  New  Hampshire  farmers,  fish  on 
Lake  Champlain,  trace  his  finger  on  the  snow 
caps  of  the  White  Mountains,  drink  the  waters 
of  Poland  Spring,  rough  it  in  the  Maine  woods, 
enjoy  the  magnificent  living  of  the  North  Shore 
residents  of  Massachusetts,  and  brush  the  cob- 
webs out  of  his  brain  in  Boston.  From  here  he 
can  leave  cards  at  Newport,  visit  the  haven  of 
all  yachts,  New  London,  and  return  through  the 
lovely  placid  country  of  Connecticut.  As  the 
English  would  now  say,  having  adopted  our  slang 
as  we  relinquish  it,  this  is  some  trip. 

Then  there  is  the  historical  interest.  The  Illus- 
trator was  very  keen  to  polish  up  on  history.  He 
has  several  Colonial  Dames  in  his  family,  and  at 
various  reunions  he  has  sat  apart  while  the  glories 
of  his  ancestors  were  sung.  He  was  strong  on 
foreign  events. 

"  He  knew  the  great  uncle  of  Moses f 
And  the  dates  of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses." 

But  he  dared  not  express  himself  freely  concern- 
ing the  battle  of  Valley  Forge  in  the  fear  of 

-f-10-j- 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

confusing  it  with  that  of  Bull  Run.  And  he  felt 
that  motoring,  and  possibly  golfing,  over  a  beau- 
tiful country  was  as  pleasant  an  arrangement 
for  one  acquiring  historical  knowledge  as  could 
be  devised. 

The  American  schoolboys  have  the  advantage 
over  those  of  Europe,  for  the  reason  that  the 
history  of  our  country  is  more  limited,  owing 
to  its  youth.  Only  the  other  day  an  English 
woman  was  commenting  upon  the  Tricentenary 
celebration  of  New  York  City.  She  said  London 
paid  no  attention  to  its  birthdays.  But  London 
is  like  a  woman  with  too  many  years  to  encourage 
confession. 

Yet  it  is  something  to  muse  upon,  is  it  not,  that 
history  began  with  Adam  and  Eve,  and  the  very 
rock  upon  which  our  New  York  apartment  sits 
has  been  the  scene  of  a  panorama  of  events 
which  would  be  worth  the  agony  of  committing, 
had  ^.^  historians,  in  the  days  of  the  dino- 
saur, safeguarded  their  records  in  Carnegie 
libraries. 

Happily  for  the  small  American  boy  he  can 
hammer  1492  into  his  brain,  and  hop  with  glad 
free  grace  from  that  date  to  the  early  part  of 
the  seventeenth  century  when  the  Pilgrim  Fathers, 
aided  by  the  French,  Spanish,  and  Dutch  Set- 
tlers, began  pressing  the  Indians  westward,  and 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

laying   the   cornerstone,   all   unwittingly,   of  the 
Woolworth  Building. 

The  Illustrator  did  not  expect  history  to  be- 
gin as  soon  as  it  did.  He  hoped  to  get  as  far 
as  Yonkers,  perhaps,  enjoying  the  run  along 
the  river  with  no  strain  on  his  intellect  beyond 
telling  the  chauffeur,  who  knew  it  already,  that 
the  glorified  cheese-box,  at  the  head  of  Riverside 
Drive,  was  Grant's  Tomb. 

But  I  surprised  him  before  we  had  left  Fifth 
Avenue  by  the  suggestion  that  we  turn  into  the 
Park  to  stop  at  McGowan's  Pass  Tavern  for  edu- 
cational purposes. 

One  does  not,  as  a  rule,  stop  there  for  that 
reason.  Yet  the  Tavern,  originally  built  in  1750, 
was  a  famous  inn,  and  a  favourite  resort  for  fox 
hunters  after  a  meet.  More  than  that,  it  was  as 
good  a  place  for  definitely  beginning  a  tour  as 
we  could  find.  The  old  Post  Road  ran  through 
the  Pass,  and  there  was  a  great  tooting  of  horns 
when  stagecoaches  and  hunters  met.  The  toot- 
ing continues  to  this  day,  but  the  honk  is  not 
the  same,  and  any  confusion  in  the  traffic  is  regu- 
lated by  a  beautiful  blue  cop,  who  could  tell  you 
all  the  wrongs  of  Ireland,  but  would  not  recog- 
nise a  Revolutionary  uniform  if  George  Wash- 
ington himself  climbed  the  steps  of  the  Tavern  to 
order  a  bowl  of  punch. 

-e-12-e- 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

Yet  authority  compensates  for  a  lack  of  imagi- 
nation. A  policeman  always  fills  me  with  awe, 
and  I  am  pleased,  but  surprised,  when  I  find 
under  his  proud  buttons  that  a  warm  heart  is 
beating.  We  were  just  sweeping  out  of  the 
Park  at  the  Hundred  and  Tenth  Street  gate, 
the  roadway  quite  full  of  vehicles,  when  the 
majestic  hand  of  One  of  the  Finest  was  hastily 
lifted. 

In  response  there  was  such  a  jamming  down 
of  brakes  that  all  the  cars  were  slanted,  heads 
were  stuck  out  of  limousines,  and  necks  craned 
from  tonneaus  to  see  what  lord  of  creation  was 
about  to  cross  the  way.  It  was  only  a  squirrel, 
a  little  grey  squirrel  hopping  over  while  mil- 
lionaires awaited  its  leisure. 

Every  one  laughed  and  was  happy.  The 
driver  behind  us,  who  had  nearly  run  into  our 
car,  not  being  timely  with  his  brakes,  hoped  he 
had  not  hurt  our  lamp.  And  we,  in  turn,  prayed 
we  had  not  scratched  his  mud-guard.  And  there 
sprung  into  our  hearts  a  fellowship  for  the  other 
fellows  in  the  road  which  was  more  valuable  for 
an  extended  tour  than  all  the  maps  of  Yankee- 
dom. 

We  followed  the  river  drive  for  its  beauty,  turn- 
ing into  Broadway  only  when  Lafayette  Boule- 
vard, arguing  that  we  had  seen  enough  of  the  Pali- 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

sades,  took  us  willy-nilly  back  to  the  direct  route. 
Yet  there  is  one  more  divergence,  for  at  Two  Hun- 
dred and  Thirtieth  Street,  if  one  wishes,  one  can 
turn  from  Broadway  again  and  strike  the  River- 
dale  road,  which  leads  straight  to  Yonkers. 

Now  that  we  were  on  Broadway  we  clung  to 
it  rather  tremulously,  as  it  stood  for  the  city 
which  we  were  quitting.  Not  that  we  had  left 
but  the  heart  of  it,  for  its  long  extended  arms  are 
growing  like  a  schoolgirl's.  The  development  of 
a  town  is  ever  of  interest.  When  it  is  booming 
the  suburbs  are  on  the  aggressive.  They  are 
eating  up  the  country  with  pert  little  houses,  and 
the  fields  creep  back  in  fear.  Let  the  boom  burst 
and  watch  the  earth  reclaim  its  lost  ground.  The 
houses  of  the  suburbs  lose  their  colour — their  grip. 
Weeds  grow  in  the  roadways,  and  the  whole  town 
takes  on  the  air  of  a  poor  old  woman  with  shrink- 
ing petticoats. 

There  is  nothing  shrinking  about  New  York. 
I  should  think  that  it  would  be  Albany  which 
would  feel  some  apprehension.  The  metropolis 
is  a  natural  foe  to  the  open  country  and  behaves 
so  badly  to  the  trees  in  our  parks  that  the  leaves 
never  turn  red — simply  gasp  and  fall. 

Van  Cortlandt  Park  deceives  us  into  thinking 
that  we  are  out  in  the  open,  and  we  say  good-bye 
to  the  underground,  which  is  very  wonderfully 

rt- 14  -*-. 


.  '  T,      ^  .    •,».,  •       R», 
j       <     J      ^^^H         -P 


FIFTH    AVENUE,   NEW   YORK 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

running  over  our  heads.  But,  oh,  dear  no!  New 
York  will  not  leave  us  yet.  More  prosperous 
apartment  houses  spring  up,  fencing  in  small 
dilapidated  farmhouses,  which  peep  out  between 
the  interstices  with  a  squeezed  look  of  pain. 

I  told  the  Illustrator  that  Broadway,  before  it 
developed  into  the  Albany  Post  Road,  had  been 
an  Indian  trail.  As  I  spoke  a  young  blood  in 
a  high-powered  car  cut  across  us  without  apology, 

and  at  this  W said  it  was  an  Indian  trail 

still.  We  only  hoped  he  would  continue  in  his 
speed  as  far  as  Yonkers,  which  is  a  staid  town 
with  a  stern  policeman. 

The  policeman,  while  severe,  is  polite,  as  he 
should  be  in  Yonkers,  for  the  word  is  a  corrup- 
tion of  Yonk-Herr,  which  me^ns  Young  Gentle- 
man. We  drew  alongside  him  to  ask  where  was 

the  Philipse  Manor  House.    Rather,  while  W 

was  asking  where  it  was,  I  was  poking  him  in 
the  back  and  insisting  that  we  need  not  ask,  as 
we  had  passed  it  a  hundred  times.  The  officer 
did  not  confuse  us  with  directions,  as  he  admitted 
he  had  never  heard  of  it,  although  he  had  a  feel- 
ing that  it  was  not  far.  Indeed,  it  was  not  far, 
it  was  just  behind  him,  fooling  the  young  Irish- 
man completely  under  the  name  of  the  Town 
Hall. 

We  got  out  to  examine  the  Hall,  for  we  felt 
-i-15-j- 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

that  if  there  was  anything  in  Yonkers  beyond 
hospitable  friends  whom  we  have  visited  from 
time  to  time  it  was  well  to  know  about  it.  I 
did  not  learn  until  I  called  at  the  library  for  further 
researches  that  one  of  the  largest  books  in  the 
world  has  been  written  about  Yonkers.  I  did  not 
read  it  all,  but  I  learned  that  the  cry  of  the 
Indian  tribe,  who  often  came  up  from  New  York, 
was, 

"  Wouch,  Wouch,  Ha,  Ha,  Hach,  Wouch." 

This  interested  me,  for  it  was  not  spelled  in 
any  way  like  the  sound  that  we,  as  children,  play- 
ing Indians,  managed  to  produce  by  patting  our 
hands  against  our  mouth.  And  I  was  whispering 
the  battle-cry  earnestly  as  I  sat  in  the  quiet  read- 
ing-room, when  a  card  was  handed  to  me  by  an 
attendant  civilly  requesting  my  silence. 

I  hastened  away  in  embarrassment,  for  I  must 
have  been  very  ridiculous  with  a  large  respectable 
book  of  Yonkers  before  me,  aspirating,  "  Wouch, 
Wouch,  Ha,  Ha,  Hach,  Wouch,"  as  though  I 
were  at  college. 

Nor  have  I  yet  found  a  corner  in  New  York 
sufficiently  noisy  to  cover  up  any  further  practice 
of  the  yell.  The  nearest  approach  to  complete 
noise  is  a  subway  station  with  two  locals  and  two 
expresses  passing  at  once.  But  even  then  I  was 

-*- 16  -*- 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

not  successful,  for  a  kindly  old  lady  interpreted 
my  first  "  Wouch "  as  ouch,  and  asked  if  she 
could  help  me. 

As  I  said  several  paragraphs  back,  we  got  out 
to  view  the  old  manor  and  to  look  at  the  soldiers' 
monument  in  front  of  it.  It  is  astonishing  how 
much  time  we  spend  staring  at  monuments  when 
we  are  travelling,  and  how  indifferent  we  are  to 
those  that  grow  at  our  doorstep.  With  a  few 
exceptions  I  would  advise  one  good  look  at  the 
first  soldiers'  monument  and  let  that  serve  for  the 
rest  of  the  trip. 

This  one,  like  many  of  the  others,  consisted 
of  figures  carrying  guns  and  mattlasses,  eager  to 
mow  down  Yonkers  at  a  moment's  notice,  while, 
underneath,  ran  an  earnest  plea  for  peace.  Ah, 
well!  This  complete  armament,  with  the  uncon- 
scious irony  of  tender  mottos  beneath,  is  not  in- 
consistent with  the  year  1914. 

We  peeped  through  the  windows  of  the  Town 
Hall  and  were  confounded  by  an  array  of  sewing 
machines  about  the  walls.  The  rooms  were  locked 
at  the  time  and  there  was  no  one  about  to  tell 
us  how  the  machines  happened  to  be  there.  I 
am  not  sure  that  I  want  to  know,  for  as  it  stands 
now  in  my  mind,  the  Town  Council  is  composed 
of  able  women  busily  making  over  laws  and  re- 
ducing rents  by  sewing  them  up. 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

W said  this  was  ridiculous,  and  he  hoped 

I  would  not  "  put  it  in,"  but  he  was  not  in  the 
best  of  humour,  for  I  had  refused  to  be  photo- 
graphed standing  on  the  Manor  House  porch,  as 
though  it  belonged  to  me,  and  he  thought  I  was 
very  disobliging.  I  knew  that  I  would  never 
permit  the  film  to  exist  for  any  length  of  time,  for 
I  did  not  like  my  hat,  and  while  he  contended 
that  it  was  his  camera,  I  retorted  that  it  was  my 
face. 

This  camera  subject  is  not  matter  extraneous 
to  a  motor  trip.  No  automobile  is  complete  with- 
out one,  and  the  hour  may  come  when  the  photo- 
graphic apparatus  accompanies  every  car  pur- 
chased. I  have  known  a  party  to  go  round  the 
world  with  no  other  evident  purpose  than  that 
of  choosing  a  varied  background  to  be  photo- 
graphed against.  "  Here  I  am,"  said  one  strip- 
ling, "  and  here  is  Napoleon's  Tomb." 

But  we  must  get  on,  for  we  are  now  striking 
stretches  of  wide  lawn,  and  the  joy  of  the  road  is 
beginning  to  permeate  us.  Not  the  joy  of  getting 
anywhere,  but  the  pure  happiness  of  swift  motion. 
It  is  the  region  of  great  estates,  where  one  can 
breathe  deeply  without  the  fear  of  anything  but  the 
most  old-fashioned  of  country  germs  entering  the 
lungs.  These  stately  country  places  are  not  un- 
friendly in  appearance,  although  earnest  notices  are 

-i-18-*- 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

tacked  over  the  gateways  that  the  grounds  are  not 
open  to  automobilists.  One  fears  that  the  manners 
of  the  travelling  motor  are  not  always  of  the  best. 
Yet  the  owners  are  in  sympathy  with  the  travel- 
lers on  the  road,  for  along  one  stretch  the  tele- 
graph poles  are  stained  a  soft  green  to  tone  in 
with  the  trees  and  carry  out  nature's  colour 
scheme. 

Some  of  the  mansions  of  Hastings,  Dobbs 
Ferry ,  Tarrytown,  and  beyond  are  given  over 
to  private  schools.  I  remember  reading  their 
pamphlets,  when  I  was  a  girl  in  the  West,  and 
feeling  the  impressiveness  of  going  to  an  abode 
of  learning  in  the  heart  of  Washington  Irving's 
country.  What  would  the  fashionable  schools 
have  done  without  that  estimable  writer! 

I  have  noticed  of  late  that  they  do  not  parade 
him  as  they  once  did,  but  this  is  a  mistake  if  the 
pamphlets  are  calculated  to  touch  the  Middle 
West.  Washington  Irving  is  still  read  in  In- 
dianapolis, Ind.,  and  Granada,  Spain.  We  prefer 
the  legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow  in  the  Hoosier  State, 
but  Spain  is  true  to  the  Alhambra,  and  a  copy 
decorates  every  Spanish  parlour  table,  like  the 
plush-covered  photograph  album. 

A  little  north  of  Tarrytown  lies  the  region  of 
Sleepy  Hollow,  although  I  have  heard  this  com- 
bated by  a  very  fashionable  and  young  man,  who 

-1-19-*- 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

said  Sleepy  Hollow  was  a  golf  club  and  high  on 
a  hill. 

This  was  the  region  of  Ichabod  Crane,  who 
"  tarried  "  to  teach  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot. 
I  can  remember  Irving's  Sketch-Book  but 
vaguely,  although  it  should  be  re-read  before 
going  into  this  part  of  the  country.  But  I  have 
always  felt  toward  Ichabod,  with  his  long  arms 
dangling  from  his  short  sleeves,  a  passionate  pity. 
There  was  a  tragic  year,  as  a  child,  when  I  shot 
beyond  my  clothes  in  every  direction,  and  I  know 
how  it  feels  for  hands  to  dangle  miles  from  a 
friendly  cuff. 

The  bridge  of  the  headless  horseman  has  been 
done  over  in  neat  grey  stone  by  Mr.  Rockefeller. 
It  had  grown  very  shaky,  due  no  doubt  to  the 
ghostly  rider  crossing  it  every  night  "  faster  than 
a  trot."  Still  I  wish  Mr.  Rockefeller  hadn't. 

On  the  slope  on  the  right  of  the  bridge  is  a 

cemetery,    where    Irving    lies    buried.      W 

wished  to  take  a  photograph  of  this  gentle  acre, 
but  being  nearsighted,  first  snapped  the  monu- 
ment works  next  door.  And  if  any  sketch  appears 
in  this  work  of  the  lovely  old  cemetery  it  is  only 
fair  to  warn  the  reader  of  his  original  inspira- 
tion. 

On  the  left  of  the  bridge  another  manor  house 
rises  charmingly  from  a  fair  acre.  Like  the  one 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

at  Tarrytown  it  was  also  built  by  the  Philipse 
family  in  the  seventeenth  century.  I  had  to  learn 
at  dinner  the  other  night  from  a  fine  old  gentle- 
man, who  came  of  Dutch  stock,  that  these 
Philipses  were  the  nouveaux  riches  of  this  locality, 
buying  their  way  into  society  and  upholding  the 
Crown  when  the  United  States  made  its  fight  for 
freedom. 

As  a  result  of  this  their  lands  were  confiscated, 
and  the  name  Philipse  hid  its  shame  by  degrees 
of  corruption  into  just  plain  Philips — with  whom 
you  probably  have  acquaintance,  and  who  do  not 
know  till  this  day  that  they  are  traitors. 

The  proprietor  of  the  Florence  Inn,  in  Tarry- 
town,  where  we  stopped  for  luncheon,  believed 
that  the  manor  by  the  headless  horseman's  bridge 
would  be  the  best  proposition  for  a  roadhouse  in 
the  vicinity.  W and  I,  being  the  most  tem- 
peramental and  inept  business  couple  in  the  world, 
thought  we  had  better  buy  a  license  and  open  the 
establishment  that  afternoon.  Our  enthusiasm 
cooled  after  we  had  paid  for  our  luncheon,  feeling 
that  there  would  not  be  enough  money  left  for  a 
manor  house  and  a  trip  to  New  England. 

So  we  passed  hurriedly  on  over  the  County 
House  road,  which  leads  directly  out  of  the  right 
from  Tarrytown,  with  the  great  Kensico  Dam 
ahead  of  us,  as  our  next  prospective  investment. 

.-*-  21  -*-. 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

One  cannot  mistake  the  County  House  road, 
for  it  is  indeed  Over  the  Hills  to  the  Poorhouse. 
The  hills  are  poorer  than  the  House,  however, 
which  is  as  shining  as  a  Dutch  doorknob.  Di- 
rectly across  is  a  corner  fenced  off  from  a  farm- 
yard, making  a  triangular  piece  which  faces  two 
roads.  There  is  the  inspiring  sign  above  it, 
"  Horses  Broke  to  Automobiles."  The  small 
space  was  crowded  with  bored-looking  colts  pay- 
ing no  attention  to  us  and  prancing  only  when  a 
strange-looking  thing,  once  known  as  a  surrey, 
came  along. 

I  have  observed  that  chickens  are  not  as  foolish 
over  approaching  motors  as  they  once  were,  and 
sometimes  stay  on  the  same  side  of  the  street; 
dogs  are  certainly  wiser,  and  I  see  no  reason 
why  colts  cannot  be  bred,  in  time,  with  a  full 
consciousness  that  the  automobile  is  a  friend  to 
relieve  them  of  cruel  labour,  and  not  a  snorting 
monster  seeking  to  devour. 

The  Illustrator,  when  I  leaned  over  and  ex- 
pounded this,  said  it  was  foolish,  and  he  hoped 
we  would  reach  the  Kensico  Dam  before  it  was 
too  late  to  photograph.  I  think  he  planned  for 
me  to  be  standing  by  it  with  a  small  trowel  in  my 
hand.  But  I  was  very  firm  about  this,  and  he 
sketched  the  bridge  instead. 

The  Kensico  Dam  is  to  Westchester  County 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

what  Gatum  Dam  is  to  Panama.  To  me  it 
appeared  quite  as  enormous  and  very  awful — in 
the  real  sense  of  the  word. 

Possibly  this  was  because  we  ran  down  under- 
neath into  that  hollow  which  will  some  day  be 
a  reservoir.  It  is  a  great  lonesome  tract  of 
country,  but  sparsely  occupied  now  by  home- 
steaders, who  are  clinging  as  long  as  they  can  to 
the  condemned  property.  But  the  houses  have 
an  unstable  air,  and  the  sketch  was  so  long  in  the 
making  that  I  grew  timorous  myself.  What  if 
the  waters  should  come  tumbling  in,  and  we  could 
never  go  upon  our  trip.  How  unfortunate  it 
would  be  to  our  friends  in  New  York  if,  by  the 
long  arm  of  circumstance,  we  should  be  forced 
through  their  water-pipes  some  morning  and 
spoil  their  morning  bath. 

I  was  glad  to  return  to  the  fine  highway, 
where,  aided  by  plentiful  sign-posts  and  some  in- 
quiries, we  struck  the  Armonk  road,  which  leads 
to  Old  Bedford.  Here  again  we  found  great 
estates,  with  gently  rounded  hills  for  a  vista,  in 
place  of  the  stretch  of  the  Hudson.  It  is  a 
sinuous  way  and  one  must  drive  carefully.  I  can 
imagine  the  upsets  the  stagecoaches  of  old  were 
subject  to,  when  they  went  bumping  over  the 
ruts  that  have  now  given  place  to  fine  macadam. 

Old  Bedford  was  the  first  stopping-place  for 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

the  night  of  the  stagecoaches  headed  for  Vermont. 
This  is  thirty-eight  miles  from  New  York  and  a 
fair  run  for  horses  over  roads  either  good  or 

poor.  A  connection  of  W 's,  by  the  name  of 

Vandervoort,  owned  this  line  of  "  Flying  Char- 
iots," and  out  of  respect  for  his  memory  his  de- 
scendant hoped  to  find  an  old  tavern  on  the 
village  green,  where  he  could  descend  as  did  the 
passengers,  and  drink  to  his  memory. 

It  was  a  thin  excuse  to  my  mind  and  I  was 
glad  the  exclusiveness  of  Old  Bedford's  summer 
residents  has  discouraged  hotels.  There  was  only 
a  humble  place  which  would  have  been  known  as 
an  Ordinary  in  coaching  days,  but  as  we  were 
to  spend  the  night  with  friends  not  far  from  the 
scene,  it  would  be  as  well  not  to  be  discovered 
wiping  one's  mouth  while  issuing  from  a  pub. 

Our  run  for  the  day  was  not  much  greater  than 
the  stagecoaches',  but  they  started  at  dawn,  and 
owing  to  the  struggle  with  superfluous  garments, 
it  was  nearly  noon  when  we  left.  Indeed,  the 
readers,  who  motor,  will  find  that  our  mileage 
would  be  more  limited  than  theirs — partly  the 
result  of  making  sketches  and  of  endeavouring 
to  force  me  into  being  photographed  in  an  un- 
becoming hat. 

This  visiting  of  the  county  folk  en  auto  is  as 
near  a  revival  of  the  days  before  the  steam  and 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

rail  as  we  can  institute.  And  the  roads  of  West- 
chester  County  near  the  tea-hour  are  flashing  with 
cars,  all  intent  upon  getting  to  other  homes  than 
their  own.  Like  ours,  baggage-laden  motors  twist 
around  the  lakes  on  the  Cross  River  road,  and 
endeavour  to  pick  out  from  a  distance  the  especial 
roof  which  is  to  afford  a  hospitable  shelter  for 
the  night. 

One  cannot  always  tell  a  host  by  his  house 
tree.  Having  picked  a  wrong  one  we  rolled  up 
a  wide  driveway  and  were  before  the  house  ere 
the  mistake  was  made  plain.  The  butler,  who 
came  out  to  greet  us,  was  also  in  a  state  of  con- 
fusion, as  his  family  were  expecting  guests,  and 
made  forcible  efforts  to  carry  off  my  typewriter 
under  the  impression  that  it  was  a  jewel-box. 

He  said  we  were  expected  and  we  doubtless 
would  have  gained  our  bedrooms  had  not  a 
hostess,  strange  to  us,  happened  to  stray  in  from 
the  tennis  court. 

In  this — to  me — very  pleasant  fashion  of  leav- 
ing guests  to  themselves,  there  is  no  particular 

reason  why  W and  I  could  not  have  remained 

deceived  and  deceptive  until  we  rustled  down  to 
dinner,  like  polite  burglars.  There  are  the  possi- 
bilities of  a  play  in  this,  and  I  shall  go  no 
further  for  the  benefit  of  others. 

With  typewriter  restored,  we  tried  another  hill, 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

which  possessed  more  staying  qualities.  The  dogs, 
the  host,  and  the  children  were  about,  the  trunk 
was  dusted  and  brought  upstairs,  and  our  chauf- 
feur, having  firmly  removed  his  dress  hat,  passed 
out  of  vision  until  the  morning. 

I  often  wonder  if  the  chauffeur  of  America 
does  not  find  his  position  trying.  He  is  neither 
flesh  nor  fowl,  nor  good  red  herring.  He  is 
superior  to  the  maids  and  men  servants,  yet,  by 
education — for  we  should  have  no  other  standards 
in  our  country — he  is  inferior  to  his  employers. 
Therefore,  if  he  cannot  sit  at  his  master's  mental 
table  he  is  uneasy  at  his  material  one. 

To  depart  from  this  figure  of  speech  there  are 
many  occasions  upon  motoring  wanderings  when 
there  is  only  one  table  for  all  of  us  to  sit  at. 
And  at  such  a  long  board  we  have  made  many 
a  pleasant  meal,  for  the  accommodating  spirit  is 
a  good  travelling  asset.  Conventions  I  take  it 
should  be  but  Conveniences,  and  we  are  always 
doing  the  "  Right  thing,"  when  we  are  doing 
the  simplest. 

I  remember  a  night  spent  in  a  small  inn  in  the 
Pyrenees.  At  the  long  table  with  us  were  a 
French  nobleman  and  family,  with  their  chauffeur, 
footman,  and  a  lady's-maid.  And  I  know  nothing 
more  charming  than  the  fashion  in  which  the  old 
marquis  would  explain  now  and  then,  in  the 


THE  WASHINGTON  IRVING  COUNTRY 

French  tongue,  to  his  employees,  that  which  we 
were  discussing  in  English. 

Motoring  is  the  blue  blood  of  travelling.  Blue 
blood  is  true  democracy.  Ergo:  motoring  is 
democracy — see  to  it. 

We  were  talking  of  our  duties  to  humanity 
during  the  evening  until  we  became  guiltily  con- 
scious that  the  servants  would  as  soon  as  not  turn 
out  the  lights  and  go  to  bed.  It  is  so  easy  to 
make  rules  for  good  conduct  and  so  difficult  to 
follow  them. 

The  moon  was  full,  and  from  my  bedroom  I 
could  see  a  sunken  pool  below  me,  with  a  leafy 
tree  reflected  in  its  still  depths.  Beyond,  the 
gentle  hills  rose  into  the  sky.  It  would  seem  a 
very  comfortable  place  to  spend  a  summer  vaca- 
tion, as  our  host  had  suggested.  But  between 
the  hills  and  sunken  pool,  at  the  foot  of  the 
sloping  garden,  lay  a  white  sinuous  invitation  to 
go  on.  It  was  a  luring  stretch  of  macadam,  and 
I  leaned  far  out,  that  my  eyes  might  follow  the 
road — the  road — the  road  I 


CHAPTER  III 

On  to  the  Berkshirea 

THE  Illustrator  has  ever  been  stern  regarding 
the  morning  start:  it  should  not  be  too  early. 
Never  caring  for  worms,  the  story  of  the  bird's 
reward  leaves  him  cold. 

Once  upon  a  time,  in  Sicily,  where  I  was  tour- 
ing alone  with  an  intrepid  lady,  we  took  our 
coffee  at  three  in  the  morning,  that  we  might 
make  the  run  from  Taormina  to  Palermo  in  a 
day.  And  I  remember  the  breaking  of  that  day 
over  the  sea,  of  the  first  rose  on  the  snows  of 
Mount  jiEtna,  of  the  dignity  of  the  old  Greek 
Amphitheatre  in  the  isolation  of  the  hour,  of  the 
cries  of  the  fishermen  coming  in  with  their  boats. 
It  seems  to  me  now,  if  I  had  missed  it  I  would 
have  lost,  forever,  the  great  meaning  of  life. 

I  have  often  spoken  of  this  to  W ,  in  the 

hope  of  stimulating  him  into  earlier  rising.  He 
is  adamant — although  gallant.  He  declares  he 
would  rather  have  me  tell  of  it  than  to  have  en- 
joyed the  experience  himself.  He  admires  my 
eloquence.  He  fears  that  if  he  arose  at  3  A.M., 
to  take  a  morning  spin,  he  would  miss  some  of 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

those  glowing  features  which  I  have  so  nobly 
depicted.  As  the  result,  our  coffee  trays  continue 
to  come  in  at  nine,  and  when  we  are  quite  ready 
we  go  on. 

I  was  awakened  this  next  morning  by  a  curious 
sound,  which  I  could  liken  only  to  large  bull- 
frogs jumping  into  a  pond,  with  their  croak 
eliminated.  It  happened  at  irregular  intervals, 
yet  was  so  persistent  that  I  niade  a  sleepy  way  to 
the  window  to  study  the  phenomena. 

The  bull-frogs  were  an  extraordinary  size — 
for  frogs — but  mere  pigmies  as  human  beings. 
They  were  the  four  children  of  our  host  plung- 
ing in  and  out  of  the  pool  with  a  lack  of  vocalisa- 
tion, out  of  respect  for  their  sleeping  elders, 
which  could  have  been  accomplished  only  by 
severe  training. 

I  had  never  believed  it  possible  before  to  drop 
into  a  body  of  water  larger  than  a  bathtub  with- 
out a  shriek,  either  of  pleasure  or  misery,  and,  as 
there  were  bathing  suits  in  the  guest  rooms,  I 
shortly  found  out  for  myself  that  it  could  not  be 
done  by  those  out  of  their  "  teens." 

My  cries  soon  brought  out  the  grown-ups  of  the 
household  in  self-defence,  and  there  was  so  much 
high  diving  and  drowning  and  rescuing  that 

we  all  made  as  late  a  breakfast  as  W could 

desire. 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

After  this  came  packing  up,  and  "  descending 
the  baggage,"  as  the  French  put  it,  and  forgetting 
the  hatbox,  and  going  back  for  it,  so  that  it  was 
almost  noon  of  an  intensely  hot  day  before  we  con- 
tinued over  the  new  state  road  in  the  direction  of 
the  Berkshires. 

Westchester  County  is  very  proud  of  this  per- 
fect strip  of  going,  as  the  entire  state  will  be  when 
it  is  completed.  It  cost  twenty  thousand  dollars 
a  mile,  and  the  richest  man  in  the  county  will 
speak  of  this  with  bated  breath.  He  ought  to — 
he  is  taxed  for  it. 

The  optimist  will  travel  over  the  road  in  com- 
plete enjoyment,  but  I  found  myself  dwelling 
pessimistically  on  the  possible  bumps  that  will 
some  day  (after  the  fashion  of  our  country)  mar 
its  beautiful  surface.  Bumps  that  will  be  un- 
heeded until  they  become  ruts — and  motoring 
horrors.  It  is  as  sad  to  reflect  upon  as  the  face 
of  a  lovely  woman  indented  by  time. 

We  were  still  among  the  lakes  and  reservoirs 
and  the  babbling  brooks  that,  before  evening, 
would  be  quenching  the  thirst  of  the  roasting 
New  Yorkers.  When  we  are  in  the  country,  suf- 
fering a  great  deal  from  the  heat,  it  is  a  cooling 
thought  that  those  left  in  the  cities  are  worse  off 
than  we  are.  At  least  we  declare  that  they  must 
be  worse  off,  very  often — as  we  wipe  our  fore- 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

heads — and  very  loud.  We  say  we  are  glad  we 
are  not  in  town  to-day — whew! 

We  passed  Golden's  Bridge,  Croton  Falls,  and 
stopped  at  Brewster  for  lunch  because  it  was  the 
lunch-hour.  In  Europe  we  can  be  fed  at  any 
time  we  open  our  mouths  like  baby  birds,  and 
give  evidence  of  money  in  our  purse,  but  over 
here  we  eat  when  the  proprietor  says  it  is  time 
to  eat. 

This  was  our  first  stop  at  a  real  country  inn, 
for  the  roadhouses  about  New  York  do  not — as 
the  children  say — count.  And  I  was  not  so 
curious  as  to  what  we  would  find  on  the  table  as 
to  the  manner  of  our  reception.  In  France  we 
tumble  out  of  our  car,  and  exchange  glad  greet- 
ings with  the  inn-keeper,  his  wife,  and  the  per- 
sonnel, as  though  we  had,  all  of  us,  only  lived 
for  this  hour.  But  here  in  America  we  do  not 
look  upon  courtesy  as  one  of  the  essentials  to  a 
possible  business.  Or  at  least  that  was  my  im- 
pression. I  am  inclined  now  to  think  that  I  was 
wrong  and  to  thank  the  motor  for  a  revival  of  hos- 
pitable manners.  Like  the  post-chaise  of  old,  we 
come  directly  to  the  door,  toot  the  horn  instead  of 
crack  the  whip,  and  receive  a  welcome  in  accord 
with  the  stateliness  of  the  arrival. 

The  proprietor  at  Brewster  answered  my  for- 
eign greeting  with  an  equal  amount  of  enthusiasm. 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

Although  the  hotel  was  simple  he  conducted  me 
to  a  dressing-room  painted  white,  where,  as  the 
darky  said,  were  all  the  means  of  "  refreshing 
up."  The  automobile  tourist  has  demanded  and 
received  this  accommodation.  With  a  reckless 
splendour,  the  comb  and  brush  were  not  chained 
even,  and  the  roller-towel  had  given  place  to 
clean  little  dabs  of  linen. 

The  lunch,  too,  was  clean,  and  better  than  it 
would  have  been  ten  years  ago  under  the  same 
management,  the  dessert  offering  satisfactory 

evidence  to  W that  we  were  in  or  near  the 

pie  belt. 

The  long  tables  have  gone,  but  the  conversa- 
tion was  general.  The  young  woman  who  served 
us,  as  usual,  knowing  nothing  at  all  about  the 
place  in  which  she  lived,  but  deferring,  in  a  loud 
voice,  to  a  regular  boarder  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  regarding  telegraph  offices,  and  the 
hour  of  outgoing  mail. 

I  suppose  when  a  waitress  concentrates  on  a 
list  of  edibles  in  bird  bathtubs,  there  is  little  room 
left  in  her  mind  for  general  information. 

Soon  we  quitted  Brewster — detained  for  an 
instant  by  the  clerk — although  we  had  paid  for 
our  luncheon  we  had  not  registered.  There  are 
no  incriminating  registers  in  Europe.  'Tis  a  gay 
land. 


THE  SUNKEN    POOL,   WESTC  HESTER   COUNTY 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

The  S.H.D.  Patrol  was  going  down  the  street, 
and  it  is  my  regret  that  I  shall  never  know  what 
the  S.H.D.  Patrol  really  means.  To  the  eyes  of 
the  uninitiated  it  was  a  small  wagon  bravely 
placarded,  with  a  driver  sweeping  the  road.  In 
the  pursuance  of  his  duty,  he  threw  a  shovelful 
of  dust  in  our  eyes  as  we  passed  him. 

Our  direction  was  Pawling.  A  few  encourag- 
ing sign-posts  kept  us  to  the  path,  although  at 
every  cross-road  we  were  met  by  fingers  of  fate 
pointing  us  to  Patterson.  It  is  strange  how  a 
town  of  which  you  have  never  heard  before 
suddenly  appears  upon  the  sign,  continues  for 
miles  to  urge  you  to  see  it,  and  with  a  last  finger 
indicating  a  road  which  you  refuse  to  take,  dis- 
appears out  of  your  life  forever. 

The  plea  to  go  to  Patterson  was  discontinued 
before  we  reached  Pawling,  but  at  the  latter  place 
we  found  so  little  to  interest  us  that  we  regret 
now  our  lack  of  deviation  from  the  straight  road. 

It  was  not  until  my  descent  upon  the  public 
library  that  I  found  the  town  to  be  worthy  of  a 
chronicle  as  thick  as  that  of  Yonkers.  Wash- 
ington, that  most  agile  of  great  men,  slept  there, 
and  a  whipping-post  still  stands,  which  was  used 
for  military  punishment.  This  mode  of  pro- 
cedure was  one  hundred  lashes  for  various  of- 
fences, only  fifty  administered  at  once.  My  heart 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

warmed  toward  Washington  at  this,  but  upon 
reading  along,  I  discovered  that  the  second  fifty 
were  laid  on  as  soon  as  the  first  stripes  festered. 

They  had  also,  in  the  community  of  Pawling,  a 
custom  in  the  eighteenth  century,  known  as  Put- 
ting Out  the  Poor.  This  did  not  mean  out  of 
their  misery,  but  selling  them  to  the  Dutch  set- 
tlers as  slaves,  where,  with  as  little  food  and  cloth- 
ing as  could  be  managed,  they  proved  that  they 
could  work  if  work  was  only  given  them. 

For  a  village  that  is  fashionable  in  the  summer, 
and  doubtless  has  a  thriving  charity  organisation, 
I  find  little  to  recommend  in  it,  and  if  I  was  of 
another  nationality,  where  the  poorest  form  of 
wit  is  generally  accepted,  I  might  suggest  that  the 
present  name  is  a  corruption  of  Appall — but  let 
us  go  on. 

Go  on — for  beyond  Pawling  a  thriller  was  re- 
served for  us.  It  was  a  red  arrow  on  a  white 
ground,  pointing  in  the  direction  we  would  like 
to  go.  "  To  the  Berkshires  "  read  the  sign  be- 
neath. It  was  a  recurrent  arrow  indicating  the 
way  whenever  we  grew  uncertain.  At  times  we 
would  find  such  a  bad  bit  of  going  that  we 
thought  we  must  be  off  the  main  road,  but  the 
arrow  cheerfully  signified:  "Press  On,  I  know 
the  road  is  rotten,  but  at  the  other  end  are  the 
Berkshires ! " 

-J-34-J- 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

We  passed  a  vast  preparatory  school  for  boys 
along  this  way,  although  I  do  not  know  what 
they  were  to  be  prepared  for  beyond  a  good  time. 
A  private  golf  course  was  in  process  of  con- 
struction for  them,  and  the  main  building  sug- 
gested marble  baths  incased  in  Tudor  architecture. 
The  Illustrator,  to  show  his  disapproval,  stopped 
to  make  a  sketch,  and  I  asked  a  road-mender 
what  he  thought  of  such  mansions  for  young 
men.  The  road-mender  opined  it  was  a  mistake. 
That  the  boys  came  from  just  good  plain  families, 
with  a  bath  every  Saturday  night,  and  returned  to 
their  homes  too  set  up  to  do  any  sort  of  work 
that  wasn't  on  a  banjo. 

I  agreed  with  the  road-mender.  We  had  had 
two  days  of  motoring  past  just  such  extravagant 
inducements  to  have  an  education,  but  I  had  not 
been  able  to  put  my  objection  into  any  such 
terse  form  as  now  expressed  by  my  new  friend. 
I  fear  we  shall  never  meet  again. 

We  had  missed  the  county  stone  between  West- 
chester  and  Dutchess  Counties,  but  we  had  long 
known  we  were  in  the  latter  province  by  a  cer- 
tain businesslike  quality  of  the  farms.  They  had 
a  self-supporting  air  that  all  of  the  Westchester 
country  places,  no  matter  what  statistics  are 
shown,  cannot  acquire.  And  the  barns  are  painted 
red.  They  are  not  white  barns  nor  grey,  nor 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

boulder  to  match  the  house,  nor  stucco  to  go  with 
the  garage.  They  are  red  because  it  is  a  service- 
able colour,  and  they  are  large  because  the  har- 
vests are  plentiful. 

The  farms  all  have  or  were  having,  or  are  tak- 
ing measurements  for  having,  a  cylindrical  tower 
at  one  end  of  the  barn.  To  be  fair  to  our  West- 
chester  host  he  had  one  also,  but  I  did  not  ask 
what  it  was,  for  at  the  time  it  did  not  occur  to 
me  that  I  would  see  more  of  these  towers  before 
the  journey  was  over  than  we  felt  bumps  in  the 
road — and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal. 

A  New  England  farm  without  a  tower  is  as 
low  in  the  social  scale  as  a  garden  without  a  per- 
gola, and  I  besought  W to  stop  long  enough 

for  me  to  find  out  their  use.  He  demurred,  for 
it  was  cool  going  and  hot  stopping,  but  I  was 
insistent.  And  I  must  say  here  that  the  auto- 
mobilist  in  America  must  make  the  most  of  the 
joys  of  conversation,  en  route,  to  atone  for  the 
loss  of  historic  chateaux,  walled  towns,  and  mag- 
nificent churches,  which  are  his  rich  portion  in 
Europe. 

There  may  be  something  snobbish  in  the  ex- 
pression of  "  Studying  the  People  "  as  one  jour- 
neys along.  Do  not  let  that  thought  distress  you, 
for  the  countryman  you  are  accosting  is  also 
studying  you.  The  outcome  of  these  wayside 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

chats  do  not,  one  will  observe,  result  in  a  chuckle 
or  a  dropping  of  the  eyelids  when  the  ships  have 
spoke  each  other  and  passed  on;  rather  is  there 
engendered  a  broader  understanding,  which  comes 
to  us  in  the  broadening  of  our  acquaintance. 

The  hermit  may  be  wise,  but  he  would  be 
wiser  did  he  extend  his  visiting  list. 

We  are  a  conscious  people  in  America  and 
we  must  begin  to  talk  quickly,  or  we  will  lose  the 
courage  to  ask  so  much  as  the  route.  We  sit 
up  in  our  proud  carriages  with  all  the  appear- 
ance of  being  prim  and  forbidding  when  we  are 
only  shy! 

It  was  Barrie  who  wrote  of  a  young  man  at  a 
dinner  party  abandoning  the  first  topic  that  came 
into  his  mind  as  being  too  slight  to  crystallise 
into  speech.  This  weakened  him — each  succeed- 
ing idea  growing  more  and  more  valueless.  As 
the  result  he  did  not  speak  at  all  beyond  asking 
a  lady  if  she  cared  for  the  salt.  She  misunder- 
stood him  and  thought  he  asked  for  it,  so  he 
used  it  when  it  was  passed  and  there  the  conversa- 
tion ended. 

What  I  found  out  about  towers  was  a  strict 
utilitarian  reason  for  these  architectural  addi- 
tions. It  seems  that  the  day  of  the  husking-bee 
is  over,  and  that  corn  and  stalks  now  disappear 
into  the  cylinder  to  be  chopped  up  into  fodder. 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

Dutchess  County  is  a  great  cattle  country. 
Black  and  white  cows  fit  in  nicely  with  the  land- 
scape, but  show  a  disinclination  to  be  photo- 
graphed, with  which  I  thoroughly  sympathise. 

At  South  Dover,  along  the  stream  that  once 
fed  an  old  mill  ("  Grain  and  Wheat  Ground  and 
Sold  "  on  the  swinging  sign) ,  we  found  many  of 
them  engaged  in  forming  a  composition  dear  to 
a  painter's  eye,  yet  whisking  their  tails  busily 
to  prevent  a  snapshot.  There  were  also  two  goats 
in  the  meadow  by  the  stream,  and  while  this  is 
of  no  importance,  I  wish  to  put  it  down  in 
writing,  I  have  never  yet  seen  a  goat  drink. 

W would  not  remain  to  watch  if  they  ever 

did  drink,  and  we  lurched  on  through  Dover 
Plains  until  the  stern  sign  of  Detour  warned  us 
that  the  way  beyond  was  under  reconstruction, 
and,  while  promising  well  for  the  future,  was 
doubtless  dreary  for  present  travelling. 

There  was  a  country  inn  at  this  juncture  with 
a  written  invitation  on  a  board  to  "  Rest  Awhile," 
and  we  would  have  done  so  had  we  known  of  the 
hitherto  undeveloped  quarry  over  which  we  jour- 
neyed before  we  again  struck  into  the  highway. 

The  rocks  of  New  England  were  now  begin- 
ning to  manifest  themselves  in  the  fields,  gleaming 
through  the  herbage  in  white  patches  "  like  snow 
upon  the  desert's  face  " — a  poor  comparison  con- 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

sidering  their  endurance — and  we  had  already 
passed  a  prosperous  working  quarry.  It  made 
one  feel  sorry  for  the  man  who  has  endeavoured 
to  wrest  a  living  from  the  top  of  the  earth  when 
he  could  gain  so  much  more  by  digging  down. 

The  undeveloped  stone  industry  under  the 
country  lane,  which  we  now  followed,  made  itself 
known  by  catching  at  our  dust-pan,  swung  low 
for  European  travel,  and  tearing  it  away  from  us. 
The  sun  was  still  hot,  and  we  were  glad  our 
chauffeur  was  a  young  man,  both  strong  and 
amiable.  The  pause  gave  me  an  opportunity  to 
discuss  the  crops  with  a  farmer  nearby.  Or  I 
attempted  to  discuss  them,  he  dismissing  the  sub- 
jest  to  talk  frivolously  of  a  wedding  back  on  the 
main  road,  which  we  would  miss  if  we  didn't  get 
started  soon. 

He  said  it  was  the  biggest  event  of  the  year, 
and  all  his  family  was  there  in  a  black  Ford.  He 
said  I  couldn't  fail  to  pick  it  out  as  it  had  been 
washed  that  morning.  With  his  eager  assistance 
we  managed  to  get  away,  rounding  into  the  state 
road,  exactly  at  the  scene  of  the  festivity. 

The  bride  and  groom  were  leaving.  At  least 
a  large  motor,  hung  with  shoes,  ornamented  by 
white  bows,  and  displaying  a  placard  on  the 
radiator  of  "  Just  Married  "  bore  down  upon  us. 

We  could  not  pick  a  bride  from  the  several 
-+-39-H- 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

girls  in  bright  frocks  within,  nor  could  we  under- 
stand the  roars  of  laughter  from  the  guests  gath- 
ered on  the  lawn  waving  them  farewell.  Marry- 
ing is  fairly  humorous,  but  at  least  a  tear  is 
expected  at  the  hour  of  departure.  I  was  anxious 

to  know  about  this,  but  W said  we  had  not 

been  invited  to  the  wedding  and  it  was  impossible 
to  stop,  and  in  this  wrangling  fashion  we  went 
on  to  Amenia. 

Ah,  but  Amenia  knew!  Just  as  I  dislike 
Pawling,  in  equal  proportion  do  I  love  Amenia. 
Two  garages  were  there  in  fierce  rivalry.  If  we 
had  chosen  the  first  no  doubt  something  delightful 
would  have  happened,  but  selecting  the  one 
further  on  we  met  the  cousin  of  the  bridegroom. 
He  had  just  come  from  the  wedding  in  a  motor 
as  high-powered  as  could  be  found  in  those  parts, 
and  in  it  he  had  slipped  the  bride  and  groom, 
rushing  them  to  the  railway  station.  The  brides- 
maids were  left  to  follow  in  the  rigged-up  auto- 
mobile, and  he  didn't  believe  the  town  would  ever 
get  over  laughing  at  it. 

I  did  like  that  cousin!  And  I  liked  the  young 
man  who  pumped  the  gasoline  into  our  tank.  He 
had  driven  a  car  once  all  the  way  from  Havre 
to  Florence  (why  he  stopped  driving  it  in  Flor- 
ence was  too  delicate  a  question  to  put  to  him) 
and  he  couldn't  see  an  earthly  reason  why  we 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

in  America  shouldn't  repair  one-half  of  the  road 
at  a  time  and  leave  the  other  free  to  traffic,  "  as 
they  done  in  Urop." 

"  I  hold  us  in  contempt,"  he  added. 

He  also  held  the  corner  druggist  in  contempt. 
I  had  bought  a  charming  post-card  of  a  fine 
old  house,  and  had  asked  the  druggist  if  he  knew 
where  it  was.  But  he  didn't  know — he  had  never 
seen  it.  And  I  went  hack,  hotfoot,  to  the  Euro- 
pean traveller,  who  took  a  look  at  the  card  and 
splashed  a  quantity  of  gasoline  all  over  us. 

"  Sees  it  every  day  of  his  life,"  said  the  live 
young  man  of  the  chemist.  "  It's  down  by  the 
depot.  No  git  up  and  git  to  him,  that's  the 
trouble.  Keeps  his  windows  dressed  in  Scott's 
Emulsion  in  the  summertime." 

During  the  few  minutes  that  we  were  in 
Amenia  there  was  also  a  dog  fight. 

The  way  of  the  red  arrow  was  now  growing 
compelling.  A  fine  road  invited  a  swift  whirring 
of  wheels  until  we  reached  Millerton.  Here  we 
turned  to  the  right  to  the  road  to  Lakeville,  hav- 
ing been  advised  by  a  courteous  gentleman,  driv- 
ing up  in  the  Night  Lunch  wagon,  to  hold  to 
the  left  at  the  ore  mines. 

We  could  not  fail  to  recognise  them,  he  said, 
although  I  don't  know  why,  as  I  am  not  familiar 
with  ore  mines.  And  yet  we  did,  judging,  rather, 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

by  the  miserable  ungarnished  miners'  cottages, 
which  sagged  up  and  down  the  street.  A  miner's 
abode  is  ever  unlovely.  It  must  be  that  any 
place  above  ground  is  bright  and  beautiful  to 
him. 

We  were  now  in  Connecticut,  as  a  big  stone 
along  the  way  announced.  A  boundary  line  never 
fails  to  be  exciting.  Whether  it  marks  a  country 
or  a  state,  the  slipping  over  from  one  territory 
to  another  gives  one  the  sensation  of  fresh  ad- 
venture, a  sloughing  off  of  the  old  skin  of  exist- 
ence, rendering  us  shining  and  ready  for  new 
conflicts. 

Lakeville  rose  from  a  mist,  a  charming  town 
with  good  hotels,  where  the  motorist  who  leaves 
New  York  early  could  easily  spend  his  first 
night,  if  he  had  any  "  git  up  and  git  to  him." 

A  small  boy  was  lighting  the  lamps  before  the 
old  Farnam  Tavern  of  1795.  He  had  a  way  of 
shinnying  up  the  post  and  sliding  down  again 
that  was  not  as  suitable  to  the  swinging  sign  of 
the  inn  as  would  have  been  the  older  method  of 
the  lamplighter  hurrying  through  the  street  with 
his  flaring  torch.  Other  times — other  customs. 

We  hurried  on,  for  we  were  so  near  the  Berk- 
shires  that  we  felt  the  tantalisation  of  the  mo- 
ment. Promptly  at  Salisbury  the  red  arrow  left 
us,  substituting,  laconically,  "  The  Berkshires,"  as 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

though  it  had  done  the  best  it  could  for  us  and 
we  must  now  find  our  own  way  about. 

This  is  not  difficult,  for  the  highroad  is  as  broad 
as  the  path  that  leads  to  destruction,  quite  as 
pleasing  in  its  features,  and  much  less  direful  at 
the  journey's  end.  We  traversed  but  a  corner  of 

Connecticut,  and  W said  we  need  not  watch 

for  the  boundary  stone  as  we  could  tell  by  the 
excellence  of  the  roadbed  when  we  were  in  Massa- 
chusetts. 

This  speech  was  practically  jolted  out  of  him 
coincident  with  our  crossing  the  state  line.  And 
he  sighed,  as  though  one  could  have  too  much 
humour,  when  I  asked  if  the  excellence  lay  in 
beneficial  results  to  the  liver  or  the  car. 

The  ruts  were  not  enduring,  however,  the  run 
through  South  Egremont  to  Great  Barrington 
being  accomplished  swiftly  if  in  a  rather  teetery 
fashion.  We  were  travelling  toward  the  end  of 
the  summer,  and  no  motor  should  complain  bit- 
terly over  the  damage  his  own  kind  has  effected. 

Even  if  you  do  not  find  the  road  perfect  you 
must  not  tell  this  to  the  hotel  clerk  at  Great 
Barrington.  He  will  reply  that  about  a  million 
people  have  stopped  in  the  hotel  this  season  and 
he  hadn't  had  a  complaint  before. 

I  suspended  my  pen  in  the  air  as  I  was  about 
to  register.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  heard  of 


ON  TO  THE  BERKSHIRES 

the  Texas  hotel  guest  who  found  fault  that  the 
roller-towel  was  not  clean.  "  Not  clean,  huh? " 
answered  the  proprietor.  '  Well,  you're  the  first 
one  to  kick  and  it's  hung  there  for  three  weeks." 
The  hotel  clerk  said  he  had  heard  it  often. 


44 


CHAPTER  IV 

Among  the  Hills  and  Colonial  Traditions 

GREAT  BARRINGTON  was  historical  ground — even 
before  we  passed  the  night  there.  I  am  not  sure 
that  historical  ground  is  especially  attractive  to 
me  unless  it  is,  as  well,  beautiful  ground.  But 
Great  Barrington  comprises  open  plumbing  with 
charming  views,  and  is  so  modern,  yet  modest,  in 
its  old  worldliness  that — in  our  comfort — we  were 
glad  to  grant  it  a  prominent  place  in  the  history 
of  the  Revolution. 

The  inhabitants  were  the  first  to  offer  armed 
resistance  to  the  authority  of  King  George. 
Eight  months  before  the  battle  of  Lexington 
the  holding  of  court  by  the  crown  judges  was 
successfully  prevented. 

This  is  easily  written  down  now,  and  in  a  few 
lines.  But  one  pauses  to  think  of  the  courage 
of  those  men  to  withstand  the  awful  majesty  of  a 
sovereign  whom  they  had  long  served.  What 
sentiment  was  it  within  their  hearts  that  filled 
them  with  a  belief  that  they  could  win  against 
such  odds! 

I  once  saw  a  body  of  striking  tailors  pass  be- 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

fore  the  workshop  of  their  rich  employer.  He 
was  looking  at  them  from  the  window — and  laugh- 
ing. He  seemed  so  easily  secure  against  them,  and 
they  so  poor  in  their  armament  against  him. 
Yet  they  won  their  strike.  It  must  be  that  right 
is  might,  and  the  consciousness  of  right  is  a 
weapon  in  itself,  which  makes  little  of  standing 
armies,  and  welds  caution  into  courage. 

An  earlier  Civil  War  than  the  one  which  devas- 
tated our  country  in  the  decade  of  1860  held 
many  of  its  scenes  of  diminutive  battle  in  this 
neighbourhood.  I  am  giving  space  to  it  because 
I  never  knew  what  Shays's  Rebellion  really  was 
until  a  rain  of  small  volumes  fell  about  me  in  my 
little  corner  of  the  library. 

That  an  Irishman  began  it  goes  with  the  title. 
Not  content  to  have  conquered  their  foes,  a 
party  of  disgruntled  men,  under  Daniel  Shays, 
became,  in  1786,  intent  upon  conquering  each 
other. 

They  were  not  without  grievance.  Our  govern- 
ment at  that  time  paid  the  soldiers  in  notes, 
which  had  no  value  when  the  soldier,  in  turn,  was 
obliged  to  pay  his  debts.  Yet  was  the  soldier 
punished  if  he  could  not  fulfil  his  obligations. 

For  this,  Shays  decided  to  attack  court  houses, 
judges  and  sheriffs,  and  any  who  took  sides 
against  him — and  with  the  government.  It  is 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

noteworthy  that  the  opposing  factions  drove  to 
battle  in  sleighs.  This  is  a  far  cry  from  motor 
busses  of  the  present  day,  if  more  humorous,  yet 
with  the  exception  of  the  chariots  at  the  time  of 
the  Caesars,  I  know  no  other  instance  of  so 
comfortable  a  method  of  warfare.  This  means 
of  transportation  was  so  similar  in  outline  that 
those  on  Shays's  side  wore  sprigs  of  hemlock  in 
their  hats,  while  the  government,  quite  lacking 
humour,  sported  the  white  feather. 

The  conflict  is  too  insignificant,  with  the  pass- 
ing of  time,  to  treat  now  with  any  great  serious- 
ness. It  was  war  of  a  kind,  even  to  a  swift 
retreat  when  the  rebels  mistook  a  log  for  a  cannon. 
For  a  sleighing  party  in  retreat  may  be  humorous 
only  in  retrospect. 

Reading  further,  I  gathered  another  important 
item,  for  in  this  age  of  slang  it  may  be  of  in- 
terest to  chronicle  that  the  word  "  Mutt "  is  not 
of  recent  origin.  There  was  one  Moses  Orcutt, 
familiarly  known  as  "  Mutt,"  whose  performance 
in  battle  defined  the  character  which  we  now  see 
in  the  funny  pages.  He  was  a  heroic  man,  and  in 
the  process  of  one  conflict  got  out  of  his  sleigh, 
placed  his  hat,  powder-horn,  and  gun  upon  the 
ground,  bared  his  bosom,  and  profanely  called 
upon  Shays's  men  to  fire  upon  the  body  of  Moses. 

To  his  surprise,  they  did  this,  nothing  deterred 
-+•47-1-- 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

by   the   Biblical   significance   of   the   name,    and 
Mutt  was  a  long  time  getting  over  it. 

Great  Barrington  also  was  the  first  of  the 
towns  in  Berkshire  County  to  go  to  jail — not 
en  masse,  but  represented  by  the  landlord  of  an 
inn.  The  first  indictment  ever  found  by  the 
grand  jury  of  the  county  was  against  one  Root, 
who  did  "  wittingly  and  wilfully  suffer  and  per- 
mit singing,  fiddling,  and  dancing  in  his  dwelling- 
house,  there  being  a  tavern  there,  or  public  house." 

For  this  he  was  fined  ten  shillings,  which  he 
paid,  feeling  that  the  festivity  was  worth  the 
money.  And  ever  since  then  the  landlords  of  the 
town,  encouraged  by  his  illustrious  example,  have 
kept  their  houses  ringing  with  music  and  good 
cheer. 

One  of  the  descendants  no  doubt,  George  F. 
Root,  lived  not  far  from  the  town.  And  he,  too, 
must  have  caught  the  musical  infection,  giving  to 
the  world  that  cure  for  weary  feet:  'Tramp, 
Tramp,  Tramp,  the  Boys  Are  Marching."  If 
one  must  leave  a  tavern  enlivened  by  fiddling,  it 
is  good  to  continue  to  the  tune  of  a  martial  strain. 

There  are  other  noises  now  in  Great  Barring- 
ton.  When  the  music  ceases  the  locomotives,  di- 
rectly back  of  the  Inn  take  up  the  cry,  and  we 
warn  those  who  spend  the  night  in  that  most 
excellent  hostelry  to  demand  rooms  in  front. 

-1-48-1- 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

The  proprietor,  when  questioned  as  to  his  choice 
of  location  for  a  resting-place,  shook  his  head 
in  bewilderment.  '  Who  would  have  thought," 
said  the  old  gentleman,  "  that  Great  Barrington 
could  ever  support  busy  freight  yards?  Branches 
of  bananas  are  the  cause  of  that  noise,  the 
grapefruit  for  breakfast,  the  fresh  fish,  the  lamb 
chops." 

We  felt  very  guilty — we  had  eaten  all  those 
things,  which,  like  an  inverted  indigestion,  occa- 
sioned us  distress  before  their  consumption. 

The  only  advantage  of  rooms  at  the  back  is  the 
opportunity  of  staring  out  at  William  Cullen 
Bryant's  old  home  when  the  freight  trains  are 
too  impelling  for  slumber.  It  has  been  moved 
back  on  the  lot  to  make  room  for  the  hotel,  and 
the  clerks  of  the  menage  now  sleep  there — if  they 
can. 

I  wondered  if  Bryant  could  have  written 
Thanatopm  in  such  a  din.  Perhaps,  extolling  as 
he  did,  in  many  a  verse,  the  beauties  of  Death, 
he  had  a  poet's  premonition  of  a  night  spent  in 
the  little  house.  The  phrase  of  a  child's  composi- 
tion recurred  to  me  as  I  reflected  upon  these 
things :  "  A  sort  of  sadness  kind  of  shone  in 
Bryant's  poems."  Yes,  he  probably  experienced, 
mentally,  the  freight  cars. 

But  au  revoir  Barrington  and  bon  jour  Stock- 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

bridge.  There  were  no  green-aproned  porters,  as 
in  Europe,  to  descend  the  baggage  and  strap  it 
on  the  car.  But  the  bell-boys  accomplished  this 
with  celerity,  and  as  in  the  older  country,  they 
lined  up  for  the  tips.  Even  the  chambermaid  ap- 
peared, although  she  did  not  line  up.  She  sat  in 
an  elegant  chair  within  the  door.  But,  there! 
She  herself  admitted  that  she  had  "  opened  with 
the  hotel  and  expected  to  close  with  it,"  and  such 
constancy  is  worthy  of  a  throne. 

The  morning  was  divine  and  the  road  good. 
The  graceful  red  arrow  again  appeared,  con- 
fining itself  to  towns  rather  than  a  general  lo- 
cality, and  pointed  us  across  the  bridge  and  up  a 
bit  of  climb,  once  known  as  the  Three  Mile  Hill 
road.  It  has  changed  since  the  Indians  made  a 
trail  of  it,  and  later,  Major  Talcott,  in  1676, 
beat  it  into  a  wider  course  for  his  little  army, 
pursuing  the  followers  of  King  Philip.  It  must 
have  been  still  imperfect  when  General  Burgoyne, 
as  a  prisoner  of  war,  rode  over  it  to  Boston, 
and  one  can  imagine  it  a  mire  of  mud  from  the 
tramping  of  the  armies  of  1812  and  the  Civil 
War. 

When  one  considers  the  history  of  a  road, 
especially  in  this  country,  which  has  had  no 
foundation  stone  of  the  Romans  for  a  bed,  we 
should  be  lenient  with  chance  ruts.  Think  of 

-j-50-*- 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

the  fortitude  of  our  forbears!  They  marched 
that  we  might  ride. 

The  approach  to  Stockbridge  is  so  delightful 
that  the  motorist  fears  the  town  will  of  necessity 
be  a  disappointment,  under  the  adage  that  all 
good  things  come  to  an  end.  But  the  end  is  not 
Stockbridge.  The  streets  grow  ever  wider  and 
better  and  cleaner,  and,  to  judge  by  the  mass 
of  evidence,  more  historical. 

Here  culture  was  applied  at  an  earlier  date 
than  any  to  which  Boston  can  lay  claim,  for,  in 
1736,  John  Sargent  taught  the  Indians  their 
letters  and  certain  industries.  His  gentle  influ- 
ence and  sympathy  were  so  pervading  that  the 
Stockbridge  citizen  admits,  on  a  shaft  of  stone 
erected  in  the  ancient  Indian  burial-ground,  that 
'  These  were  the  friends  of  our  fathers." 

I,  for  one,  do  not  know  of  another  such  admis- 
sion in  all  the  broad  country  which  we  have 
gradually  wrested  from  these  savages,  who  might 
not  have  been  so  savage,  after  all,  had  John 
Sargents  been  scattered  through  the  land. 

David  Dudley  Field,  illustrious  son  of  his 
illustrious  father,  has  erected  a  clock-tower  on 
the  site  of  the  schoolhouse.  The  passing  of  time 
is  not  more  clearly  shown  on  its  dial  than  the 
town  itself.  Yet  it  is  gently  fashionable.  On  the 
wide  piazzas  of  the  Red  Lion  Hotel,  women  were 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

knitting  helmets  and  bands  and  socks  of  grey  wool 
for  the  men  in  the  present  war.  There  was  an 
air  of  helpfulness  about  the  place. 

There  was  even  advancement  in  the  modern 
schoolhouse  windows,  which  were  levelled  to  the 
vision  of  the  children  wriggling  behind  wooden 
desks  within.  The  little  faces  were  looking  out 
as  we  passed.  The  high  casements  of  my  youth 
encouraged  closer  attention  to  one's  studies,  I 
imagine,  but  excluded  philosophising  on  the  pass- 
ing show.  And  one  must  begin  his  philosophy 
early  in  life  to  accept,  without  protest,  the  show 
which  passes  him  by. 

There  are  two  roads  to  Lenox.  We  took  the 
one  by  way  of  Lee,  on  the  theory  that  the  longest 
way  round  creates  a  fine  appetite.  The  only 
things  to  recommend  Lee  are  the  estates  outside 
of  it  and  the  beauty  of  the  Congregational  Church 
spire  from  a  distance.  Since  it  is  impossible  to 
find  the  spire  after  you  have  entered  the  town,  I 
felt  that  its  slender,  far-away  charm  might  be  fitly 
termed  an  aspiration!  Or  I  should  feel  that 

way,  save  that  W contends  if  I  try  to  pun 

it  will  make  the  reader  ill.  Upon  argument,  how- 
ever, he  has  allowed  me  to  leave  this  in,  under 
the  plea  that  it  will  be  useful  as  a  charade. 

It  is  a  dangerous  town — at  least  on  Sundays, 
for  a  notice  at  the  railway  crossing  announces  that 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

the  gates  will  not  be  operated  on  the  Sabhath. 
This  either  to  discourage  driving  to  church  or  to 
give  the  gateman  a  chance  to  go. 

We  were  deterred  by  a  passing  train,  and,  true 
to  my  belief  in  making  conversation  when  I  could, 
I  asked  the  keeper  of  the  gates  if  he  did  go  to 
church.  He  said  no,  he  always  hung  around  the 
tracks  just  the  same,  he  kind  of  liked  to  see  the 
trains  go  by  full  of  people.  There  was  a  phi- 
losopher full  of  years,  who  could  watch  the  pass- 
ing show  without  bitterness. 

There  was  one  household  in  Lee  who  watched 
us  pass  with  real  enthusiasm.  We  made  the 
wrong  turn  going  toward  Lenox,  and  in  our 
effort  to  retrace  our  steps,  in  a  narrow  way,  had 
run  up  the  carriage  drive  of  the  residence  as  far 
as  the  circle  before  the  kitchen.  Our  arrival 
created  hideous  consternation,  for  the  entire 
family  were  in  the  backyard  peeling  peaches  for 
"  perserves."  I  never  saw  such  a  hasty  casting 
off  of  aprons  when  they  thought  unexpected 
guests  had  come,  or  such  a  glad  resuming  of  them 
when  it  was  made  plain  that  we  were  as  anxious 
to  leave  as  they  were  to  have  us. 

Formality  grows  to  a  Yankee's  back  as  does  a 
shell  to  a  turtle.  He  may  be  any  kind  of  a  dare- 
devil, but  the  deviltry  goes  on  under  a  grim 
exterior. 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

The  approach  to  Lenox  was  along  another 
splendid  avenue.  One  can  find  the  names  of  all 
the  great  show  places  through  this  district  by 
asking  for  a  list  at  any  hotel  desk.  I  shall  not 
weary  the  reader  with  a  recital  of  them,  for  fear 
that  he  is  an  anarchist.  I  very  nearly  became 
an  anarchist  along  the  way  myself. 

There  was  one  insufferably  beautiful  place  be- 
fore whose  gateway  we  chanced  to  stop  to  search 
for  my  typewriter.  The  poor  creature  had  shrunk 
out  of  sight,  fearing  its  appearance  might  suggest 
that  we  had  something  to  do  with  trade.  And  as 
we  brought  it  fearlessly  to  light,  a  man  on  horse- 
back came  out  of  this  gateway,  looked  at  us  with 
suspicion,  and  called  attention  to  a  sign  by  osten- 
tatiously straightening  it.  "  Positively  no  admit- 
tance except  for  guests,"  it  read.  Then,  with  a 
last  glare,  he  rode  on  before  I  could  tell  him  that 
it  must  be  very  uncomfortable  to  be  a  guest  in  his 
house,  and  that  I  was  going  to  put  him  in  a 
book. 

The  Illustrator  grew  so  distressed  over  this 
pretentious  approach  to  Lenox,  that  he  changed 
his  hat  shortly  afterwards,  and  I  think  the  chauf- 
feur would  have  enjoyed  wearing  his  derby  had 
he  been  encouraged. 

What  annoys  me  is  that  grass  grows  greener 
and  flowers  bloom  more  freely  for  those  whose 


A  COUNTRY  HOUSK  AT  LKNOX 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

lawn  mowers  are  of  the  best  and  whose  garden- 
ers are  not  limited  to  the  efforts  of  the  family. 
But  they  cannot  rob  us  of  the  delight  that  these 
visions  afford  us,  nor  can  their  eyesight,  dulled 
by  continual  beauty,  be  as  keen.  It  is  only  by 
drinking  poor  wine,  now  and  then,  that  one  can 
fully  enjoy  the  richest  vintages. 

Lenox,  though  a  proud  city,  is  too  fine  an  aris- 
tocrat to  make  the  modest  traveller  uncomfort- 
able by  its  wealth.  And  the  hotels  show  an 
eagerness  to  serve  you,  which  is  a  pleasant  com- 
bination of  old-time  manners  and  new-time  thrift. 
The  Curtis  Hotel  rests  in  the  town,  but  we  went 
beyond  to  the  Aspinwall,  which  lies  on  a  hill, 
and  commands — I  believe,  now  that  the  trip  is 
over — the  most  lovely  view  of  any  of  the  chain 
of  fine  hostelries. 

The  position  from  the  rear  of  the  Aspinwall 
would  suggest  that  we  were  at  a  great  height. 
The  "  high  places  "  affect  the  observer  differently. 
An  opulent  gentleman,  both  financially  and  phys- 
ically, who  had  descended  from  a  great  motor 
coincident  with  us,  regarded  the  valley  below 
with  such  a  glistening  eye  that  I  thought  he  was 
really  affected  by  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 

He  spoke:  "  Shows  how  good  our  car  can 
climb,"  was  his  comment. 

Far  below  was  the  golf  course,  and  it  is  only 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

fair  to  warn  husbands  playing  over  this  ground 
that  certain  anxious  wives  watch  them  from  the 
terrace  through  field-glasses.  I  do  not  think 
that  a  Lenox  husband  would  ever  do  the  wrong 
thing — whatever  that  is — but  it  is  a  mistake  to 
have  your  wife  know  you  have  lost  three  balls 
and  the  game,  when  you  are  shortly  coming  in  to 
luncheon  to  tell  her  you  have  won. 

They  were  gathering  for  the  midday  meal  as 
we  were  solemnly  registering.  At  this  hotel  you 
do  not  have  to  pay  for  your  luncheon  before  you 
eat  it,  although,  farther  along,  we  found  equally 
proud  houses  which  took  it  in  advance.  But  reg- 
ister you  must.  The  Illustrator  was  trying  to 
extract  some  historical  and  literary  information 
from  the  clerk,  in  the  endeavour  to  prove  that 
we  were  an  intellectual  couple  and  not  bent 
upon  frivolity.  But  he  was  a  very  present-day 
young  man,  limiting  his  knowledge  to  his  busi- 
ness— which  is  enough  for  any  one  in  life. 

We  knew  that  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  once 
lived  here,  and  that  having  inhabited  the  House  of 
the  Seven  Gables,  in  Salem,  he  came  to  Lenox  to 
write  about  it.  We  did  not  know  that  his  little 
red  cottage  had  burned  down  when  we  asked  for 
the  Hawthorne  House — and  the  clerk  did  not 
know  it  had  ever  existed. 

"Hawthorne  House?"  he  repeated  skeptically. 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

"  Never  heard  of  it.  What  is  it — a  Blue  Book 
hotel?" 

The  guests  dribbled  into  the  dining-room,  and 
the  occupation  of  eating  was  tempered  by  a  hum 
of  voices.  We  Americans  are  of  two  kinds.  We 
either  talk  too  loud  or  too  low,  particularly  in 
public  places.  It  betrays  a  self -consciousness  that, 
I  suppose,  only  the  centuries  will  overcome.  An 
European  family  will  sit  down  in  public  without 
feeling  the  necessity  of  putting  a  mute  on  the 
voice  and  retiring  as  though  behind  a  pall.  They 
are  not  noisy  or  gay — they  do  not  toot  on  tin 
horns — but  they  say  what  they  wish  without  low- 
ering the  tone  to  that  painful  depth  which  we 
mistake  for  a  cultured  note.  Let  us  be  brave — 
and  ourselves,  for  nothing  can  be  better  than  that. 

It  was  a  charming  hotel,  with  an  arrangement 
of  flowers  throughout  the  rooms  that  would  make 
a  Japanese  blush.  I  tried  to  find  out  who  did 
them,  and  was  pleased  when  the  dressing-room 
attendant  said  she  fixed  hers.  They  were  all 
the  mauves  of  all  the  flowers  in  the  garden.  She 
said  she  "  just  felt  that  way  to-day."  We  are 
all  temperamental  after  our  fashion. 

There  is  a  clock  in  an  old  Lenox  church  given 
by  that  most  temperamental  of  actresses,  Fanny 
Kemble.  A  guidebook  dismisses  her  swiftly  as 
"  a  talented  young  woman,"  as  though  to  keep 

-*-57-»- 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

her  profession  a  secret.  But  so  few  actors  have 
ever  left  a  legacy  to  the  people  more  enduring 
than  the  transient  memory  of  their  art,  and  so 
few  churches  would  be  willing  to  accept  an  offer- 
ing from  that  class  known  in  Delaware  as  "  vaga- 
bonds," that  it  is  fair  both  to  the  player  and  the 
place  to  make  a  little  excursion  up  a  little  hill. 

Fanny  Kemble  lived  many  years  in  Lenox 
after  her  retirement — in  1850,  I  think — and  is 
one  of  those  rare  cases  of  English  actresses  who 
spend  the  money  they  make  in  this  country.  I 
am  not  sure  but  her  form  of  gift  is  as  persistent 
a  plea  not  to  be  forgotten  as  any  loftier  monu- 
ment. The  pendulum  swings  with  all  the  rhythm 
of  her  tragedy,  and  the  tick-tock  of  the  hands 
is  as  constant  as  the  rippling  laughter  of  her 
comedy. 

We  were  some  time  getting  away  from  Lenox 
influences,  the  wealth  of  the  neighbourhood 
dwindling  off  into  a  recognition  of  it  by  an  effort 
of  the  poorer  population  to  "  make "  out  of  it. 
Farmhouses  offer  for  sale  anything  from  them- 
selves to  red  apples.  The  windows  of  the  settin'- 
room  are  dressed  with  jars  of  candy,  or,  as  a  con- 
cession to  the  sins  of  the  day,  with  packages  of 
cigarettes  and  smoking  tobacco.  One  ambitious 
effort  to  please  every  taste  displays  the  sign: 
"  GROCERIES,  CIGARS,  ICE  CREAM,  GRAIN,  and 

-t-58-t- 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

FEED,"  and,  further  along,  one  finds  an  old  tavern 
sign  with  a  new  tail  offering:  "  Entertainment  for 
man,  beast,  and  automobile." 

These  poor  farms  are  in  juxtaposition  with  lands 
bought  up  by  city  folk,  and  if  ghosts  still  walk 
they  must  haunt,  not  the  shabby  homes  of  the 
natives,  but  these  newer  estates.  Bitter  ghosts  of 
farmers  who,  with  a  small  capital,  struggled  for 
a  generation  or  two  to  make  their  acres  pro- 
ductive, and  now  witness  the  lands  blossoming 
like  the  rose  under  a  cultivation  that  is  not  limited 
to  mean  farming  implements. 

The  heartache  of  these  rocky  pastures!  The 
backache  of  these  stone  fences,  which  we  so  much 
admire !  They  have  all  been  built  with  rocks  from 
the  soil,  and  still  the  land  is  sown  with  them. 
One  wonders  why  so  unproductive  fields  are 
fenced  in  at  all.  But  they  say  that  a  surface  may 
be  free  one  year  from  them,  and  the  following 
season  work  their  way  up  from  a  lower  stratum,  as 
though  some  giant  of  ancient  times  had  sown  the 
dragon's  teeth. 

I  never  see  an  old  farmhouse  with  but  one 
"  lean-to "  that  I  do  not  feel  the  pathos  of  a 
lost  endeavour.  First,  the  main  part  of  the  house 
was  built,  full  of  hope,  and  with  faith  that  riches 
would  grow  with  the  family.  Every  farmhouse 
of  pretension  must  have  a  wing  on  either  side  for 

-*-59-«- 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

balance — but  these  things  must  come  in  time. 
After  a  while  one  wing  is  added,  and  there  in 
many  instances  the  additions  cease  while  the 
mortgage  rolls  on.  The  old  house  and  the 
"  lean-to  "  age  together.  The  children  go  their 
ways,  each  year  they  think  that  the  following 
year  will  leave  enough  above  the  interest  for 
fresh  paint,  but  there  is  no  such  thing  on  a  New 
England  farm  as  "  losing  interest." 

When  you  see  a  house  like  this,  get  out  and 
buy  an  apple.  But  if  you  bought  all  the  apples 
that  your  trunk  and  hatbox  and  the  brass  rail 
could  hold  you  would  have  left  no  impression  on 
the  output  last  summer.  Most  of  the  New  Eng- 
land fruit  goes  to  Europe  and  there  was  no  ex- 
porting of  it  this  year.  So  has  the  war  made 
itself  felt  in  every  cranny  of  our  existence. 

As  we  rolled  along  our  very  delightful  way 
there  were  orchards  on  every  side  of  us,  in  the 
front  yards  and  at  the  back  stoops,  and  "  apple- 
trees  over  our  heads  did  grow,"  like  old  Crummies 
in  the  story-book.  Many  of  the  trees  do  not  bear 
fruit,  and  one  wonders  if  they  all  bore  every  year 
what  they  would  do  with  their  harvests.  New 
England  would  probably  become  a  hard-cider 
drinking  community,  like  Normandy  and  Brit- 
tany. 

A  motor  should  never  encourage  hard  cider.    It 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

fills  a  man  without  an  automobile  with  a  hatred 
of  the  man  who  has  one.  We  were  sympathet- 
ically watching  a  Pardon  in  a  Brittany  church- 
yard one  year.  It  was  very  touching — the  sim- 
plicity of  the  country  people  with  their  brave 
costumes  and  long  candles  following  the  statue 
of  St.  Anne,  and  chanting  as  decorously  as  they 
could,  considering  the  hard  cider,  and  we  made 
our  way  back  to  our  car  sombrely — to  find  the 
tires  slashed!  It  was  the  work,  no  doubt,  of 
some  peasant  with  velvet  strings  to  his  hat,  who 
was  at  the  moment  engaged  in  securing  his  "  Par- 
don." 

Hard  cider  is  not  unknown.  There  is  a  copy 
of  an  agreement  between  the  earliest  of  the  white 
men  and  the  Indians  for  a  portion  of  the  land 
through  which  we  were  now  travelling — a  portion 
equal  to  a  county,  one  might  add — in  which  the 
newcomers  agreed  to  pay  the  redskins  four  hun- 
dred sixty  pounds,  three  barrels  of  "  syder,"  and 
thirty  quarts  of  rum.  It  appears  that  the  early 
dealings  were  not  unlike  those  of  the  government 
reservations  of  to-day. 

The  approach  along  the  way  leading  into  Pitts- 
field  is  uninspired.  The  town  is  lovelier  in  the  cen- 
tre than  on  its  outskirts,  like  a  plain  old  lady  with 
a  heart  of  gold.  It  is  a  sedate  village,  with  mag- 
nificent elms  lining  its  great  main  avenue,  which 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

constitutes  a  park.  I  am  uneasy  as  to  the  age 
of  elms  or  I  could  say  that  they  gave  pleasant 
shade  to  Lafayette  when  he  visited  Pittsfield,  that 
fighting  Parson  Allen,  who  was  the  minister  of 
the  old  Congregational  Church  here,  led  his  men 
under  their  arch  of  boughs,  to  the  battle  of  Ben- 
nington  in  August,  1777.  Let  us  hope  for  all  the 
shade  our  imagination  can  give  them,  for  it  is  a 
"  long,  long  way  "  to  Bennington,  and  they  did 
not  go  in  chariots  or  sleighs  or  motors. 

Surely  both  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  and  Long- 
fellow enjoyed  their  beauty,  and  the  Longfellow 
House,  on  East  Street,  still  contains  "  The  Old 
Clock  on  the  Stairs,"  still  ticking  away :  "  For- 
ever— never,  Never — forever."  Upon  investiga- 
tion I  find  that  the  verse  runs: 

"Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country  seat. 
Across  its  ancient  portico 
Tall  poplar  trees  their  shadows  throw — M 

Mercy,  and  I  thought  they  were  elms ! 

Pittsfield  is  so  correct  in  appearance  that  I 
hesitate  to  record  one  occurrence  which  the  elms, 

or  whatever  they  are,  witnessed — if  W 's  story 

is  true.  A  lioness,  which  had  broken  from  its 
cage  in  a  show  nearby,  made  a  little  promenade 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

through  the  town  to  the  surprise  and  terror  of  all. 
Her  keepers  followed  discreetly  behind  waving 
silently  to  the  passerby  for  a  track  to  be  cleared. 
The  animal  was  very  savage,  so  goes  the  story, 
and  they  were  at  their  wit's  end  to  know  how  to 
get  it  back  before  Pittsfield  blood  was  shed. 

But  the  keepers  had  not  counted  on  the  village 
drunkard.  He  came  out  of  a  saloon,  just  by  the 
Wendell  Hotel,  and  encountered  the  lioness  head 
on.  The  terrified  guests,  looking  from  the  win- 
dows, felt  as  did  the  keepers,  that  the  village 
drunkard  would  now  go  to  meet  his  Maker. 

But  he  did  not.  He  took  a  look  at  the  beast, 
slapped  her  in  the  face,  and  advised  her,  in 
Yankee  dialect,  to  go  on  home.  And  this  the 
fierce  creature  did,  very  much  alarmed. 

The  tale  has  a  moral  of  some  sort,  although 
the  Illustrator  was  hazy  about  this,  and  as  it  was 
the  best  he  could  do  toward  enlightening  me  his- 
torically about  the  place,  we  motored  on  in  dig- 
nified silence. 

We  left  for  Williamstown  over  a  road  marked 
"  Passable  but  Unsafe,"  which  we  took,  as  it  would 
seem  there  was  no  alternative.  Later,  we  found 
that  we  could  have  taken  an  excellent  road  by 
North  Adams,  which  would  have  been  better 
going. 

Still,  had  we  gone  that  way,  we  would  have 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

missed  Lake  Pontoosuc  and  our  conversation 
with  the  old  lady  who  had  been  fishing  all  day 
and  declared  she  hadn't  caught  a  single  punkin'- 
seed.  It  was  a  curious  thing  to  be  fishing  for 
with  her  garden  full  of  the  genuine  article,  but 
she  was  a  curious  old  lady.  At  least  she  gave 
us  a  thought — or  perhaps  any  one  will  give  us 
a  thought  if  we  are  sufficiently  receptive. 

"  'Tain't  that  I  need  the  punkin'-seed  for  sup- 
per," she  said. 

"Then  why  do  you  want  to  catch  them?"  we 
asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "  Jest  to  come 
out  ahead,  I  guess.  Why  do  you  want  to  win 
at  cards  when  you  ain't  playin'  for  a  prize?  I 
guess  just  all  life  is  a  race,  and  we'd  set  down 
and  die  if  we  didn't  feel  it  was  nice  to  beat." 

We  moralised  on  this  and  felt  kindly  toward 
another  motorist,  who  expressed  a  desire  for  a 
friendly  brush.  We  passed  and  repassed  each 
other  at  times,  not  that  there  was  any  laurel 
wreath  for  the  victor,  but  that  we  were  following 
one  of  life's  principles.  The  daredevils  of  the 
road  may  be  only  a  little  more  full  of  the  joy 
of  existence  than  are  we. 

Before  reaching  Pittsfield  we  had  quitted  the 
valley  of  the  Housatonic  ("  The  River  Beyond  the 
Mountains "  is  the  charming  meaning  of  the 

-+•64)-*- 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

word),  and  were  now  approaching  the  Taconic 
Range  of  the  Berkshires  through  the  valley  of 
the  Hoosac.  It  is  a  rich  farming  country  with 
an  air  of  money,  not  in  the  bank  perhaps,  but  at 
least  in  the  stocking  under  the  mattress. 

The  farmhouses  are  scattered,  yet  the  inhabi- 
tants along  the  way  are  held  together  by  an  in- 
novation that  has  come  but  recently  to  our  coun- 
try, and  does  much  to  keep  the  lonely  farmer's 
wife  in  touch  with  the  world. 

This  is  only  the  little  tin  box  of  the  rural  free 
delivery.  All  along  we  saw  women  standing  in 
their  front  yards,  with  their  faces  in  but  one 
direction,  and  presently  we  spied  the  postman's 
wagon  jolting  along  with  letters  and  papers  for 
the  waiting  ones.  He  did  not  look  like  a  proud 
person,  but  he  could  well  have  been,  for  his  pass- 
ing was  the  event  of  the  day.  And  his  grey 
clothes  could  better  have  been  the  rosy  garments 
of  wonderful  adventure. 

The  husbands  of  these  women  can  vary  their 
existence  by  making  laws  for  the  automobilist. 
We  were  continually  urged  by  sign-posts  not  to 
go  over  fifteen  miles  an  hour,  and  they  offered 
a  further  inducement  beyond  a  fine  to  limit  our- 
selves to  that  modest  pace  by  occasional  ruts  con- 
cealed in  dust. 

With  less  modesty  than  the  pursued  postman, 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

they  style  themselves  Selectmen,  and  as  a  band 
of  the  anointed  urged  us  at  every  turn  to  "  Sound 
Klaxon — Board  of  Selectmen." 

This  was  difficult  for  us  to  do  as  we  have  no 
Klaxon,  and  we  had  not  the  vocal  chords  of  a 
certain  retired  prima  donna,  who  makes  a  horn 
of  her  own  voice,  and  puts  to  shame  any  mechani- 
cal device.  Still  we  sounded  as  well  as  we  could, 
and  it  is  wise  to  do  this.  A  city  chauffeur  is 
not  always  a  good  country  driver.  While  exer- 
cising every  care  on  the  corners  in  New  York, 
he  moves  swiftly  around  hills,  as  though  by  no 
possible  chance  could  another  motor  be  passing 
along  that  road.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  be  dumped 
out  on  a  lonely  way  with  a  consciousness  that 
you  will  have  to  wait  until  the  postman  comes 
along,  and  that,  even  then,  not  being  stamped, 
he  may  refuse  to  carry  you. 

We  reached  Williamstown  at  the  tea-hour, 
although  it  seemed  to  me  very  much  later  in  the 
afternoon,  for  the  continual  change  of  scene  has 
a  way  of  lengthening  the  day,  which  is  confus- 
ing to  simple  minds. 

It  was  not  too  late  for  the  Illustrator  to  make 
a  sketch,  and  this  he  did,  presenting  to  your  vision 
a  church  which  is  entirely  new,  yet  clinging  so 
firmly  to  its  Colonial  style,  that  the  architect  is 
to  be  commended  for  his  restraint.  It  appears  to 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

be  a  great  temptation  to  over-elaborate  a  modern 
building  in  the  Georgian  style.  One  column  too 
wide,  one  pediment  too  florid,  one  wreath  too 
many. 

It  was  the  Italian,  Palladio,  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  who  first  accommodated  the  old  Greek 
style  to  dwelling-houses.  He  lived  in  Venice, 
and  built,  for  the  Venetian  noblemen,  country 
houses  on  terra  firma,  along  a  foolish  little  river 
called  the  Brenta.  We  were  much  amazed  when, 
by  chance,  we  motored  out  from  Padua  and  dis- 
covered this  district.  Save  for  their  dilapidation 
these  abodes  of  the  mighty  bore  the  air  of  Long 
Island. 

The  architects  of  the  English  Georges  adapted 
his  innovation  to  the  English  landscape  perfectly, 
and  we,  before  we  became  a  republic,  also  used  it. 
So  in  our  country  it  is  Colonial,  but  the  wise 
man,  who  is  conscious  of  its  Greek  extraction, 
should  keep  his  house  as  plain  as  possible. 

There  are  no  white  frame  churches  in  Eng- 
land, and  they  do  not  miss  what  they  do  not  know : 
the  beauty  of  the  shadow  of  green  trees  upon  the 
glistening  surface.  Some  do  not  worship  within 
the  tabernacle,  but  surely  we  can  find  religion 
in  the  outside  of  these  slender-spired  habitations 
of  the  Lord. 

We  stopped  at  the  Greylock  Hotel  for  tea. 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

At  least  I  stopped  while  W worked,   and 

upon  ordering  it  I  was  told  that  in  ten  minutes 
tea  would  be  served  in  the  hotel  anyway.  There 
is  no  arguing  with  Yankee  ways;  it  is  less  arduous 
to  accept  them.  I  sat  myself  down  to  await  de- 
velopments which  were,  as  time  passed,  a  tea  serv- 
ice, a  cheery  kettle,  a  table  of  biscuits,  and  an 
interested  maid.  (I  could  spend  a  great  deal  of 
time  on  a  maid  who  is  interested.)  Guests  began 
to  drop  into  the  hall,  the  cups  went  round,  and 
before  I  knew  it  I  was  saying,  "  Two  lumps, 
please,"  and  conversing  with  a  clergyman. 

The  clergyman  asked  me  if  I  had  sons  in  the 
college,  and  while  this  was  trying,  for  I  have  ever 
(falsely)  considered  myself  a  youngish  woman, 
I  was  charmed  with  the  unaffected  simplicity  of 
the  hotel  that  served  tea  for  nothing  and  provided 
me  with  an  acquaintance. 

More  than  that,  I  admired  the  way  the  minister 
took  his  tea,  for  I  think  they  are  the  only  class 
of  Americans  who  drink  it  without  effort,  and 
run  no  risk  of  slopping.  I  told  him  I  had  no 
sons,  but  I  knew  a  prominent  playwright  whose 
son  was  there,  and  the  lady  next  me  had  that  in 
her  face  which  would  suggest:  "  Is  she  an  actress? 
No.  Such  an  old  sweater.  With  her  husband? 
Oh,  he  is  sketching.  Well,  artists  are  pleasant, 
still  one  can't  be  too  careful." 

rt-  68  -e- 


^SSs&SOT  <£     Vt 


THE   ('HriU'11    THKOrCJH    THK    TUKKS,    WILLIAMSTOWN 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

Later  she  thawed,  and  I  left,  liking  her.  It 
is  remarkable  how  like  the  New  Englander  is  to 
the  Briton.  First  one  feels  they  are  not  to  be 
endured,  then  one  finds  they  are  absolutely  sound 
and  simple. 

The  minister  regretted  that  the  mist  blotted  out 
Greylock,  which  is  not  only  a  hotel  but  a  moun- 
tain. Indeed,  it  is  the  noblest  peak  of  the  Berk- 
shires,  and  we  were  politely  wondered  at  for  not 
making  an  ascent,  as  it  is  but  twelve  miles  from 
Williamstown. 

Williams  College  has  extolled  Greylock  from 
time  to  time  in  verse,  and,  with  a  certain  shrewd- 
ness, began,  as  early  as  1790,  to  declare  that  they 
would  do  honour  once  a  year  to  the  mountain. 
To  do  honour  in  this  or  any  other  country  means 
to  take  a  day  off,  and  though  I  inquired,  I  could 
not  discover  whether  it  was  the  students  or  the 
professors  who  first  instituted  the  holiday. 

As  we  sat  pleasantly  rocking  in  our  mission- 
chairs,  I  learned  also  of  the  "  Spectre  of  the 
Brocken."  It  is  a  phenomenon  occasioned  by  a 
shadow  of  one  or  many  individuals  hugely  magni- 
fied upon  a  cloud.  Just  why  this  should  be  the 
rich  portion  of  Greylock,  and  not  of  all  other 
mountains,  one  can  only  put  down  to  atmospheric 
conditions. 

In  a  small  guidebook,  which  they  brought  out, 
-j-69-*- 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

giving  one  thousand,  more  or  less,  different  ways 
of  making  the  ascent,  there  are  such  solemn  asser- 
tions of  the  truth  of  this  spectre  that  I,  for  one, 
am  willing  to  admit  it  and  be  done. 

At  least  it  is  democratic  in  the  choice  of  those 
it  casts  upon  the  gigantic  screen.  In  1907,  as  a 
certain  Mr.  Webster  was  "  bringing  down  the 
summer  piano,"  he  suddenly  discovered  himself 
and  entire  outfit,  horses,  wagon,  and  piano,  photo- 
graphed in  enormous  dimensions  against  the  sky. 

I  brushed  the  crumbs  out  of  my  lap  and  edged 
hastily  away  after  this.  It  is  bad  enough  to  be 
photographed  at  all — but  in  enormous  dimen- 
sions ! 

Even  so,  it  was  hard  to  leave  Williamstown, 
full  of  tea  for  nothing  and  other  attractions,  and 
I  advise  any  one  else  to  stay  over.  The  Uni- 
versity buildings  are  very  good,  and  delightful 
boys,  who  are  probably  taking  summer  courses  for 
dilatory  habits,  mooned  in  and  out  of  the  fra- 
ternity houses  across  from  the  Inn.  Ephraim 
Williams,  a  hero  of  the  French  and  Indian  wars, 
founded  the  town;  and  the  college  for  the  per- 
petuation of  his  name  and  the  advancement  of 
knowledge  was  established  in  1750. 

There  is  also  a  claim  that  Williamstown  was 
the  birthplace  of  foreign  missions,  and  a  stone, 
rather  subtly  called  the  Haystack  Monument,  gives 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

you,  on  its  surface,  further  data.  All  this  is  not 
as  terrifying  as  it  sounds,  only — bring  your  flask 
along  for  Williamstown. 

Only  fourteen  miles  ahead  lay  Bennington,  the 
country  opening  into  broad  stretches  of  farm- 
land as  we  emerged  from  the  Hoosac  Valley.  We 
missed  any  definite  marking  between  the  Massa- 
chusetts and  Vermont  state  line,  but  we  could  not 
mistake  we  were  in  Vermont,  approaching  Ben- 
nington, by  a  glimpse  from  a  distance  of  the 
great  monument. 

This  is  one  of  the  "  Soldiers  and  Sailors  "  that 
we  must  stop  to  see.  But  we  must  do  more  than 
that:  we  must  find  the  Walloomsac  Inn.  When 
one  starts  the  day's  run  in  the  morning  the  wish 
to  go  on  forever  is  all  possessing,  but,  toward 
nightfall,  one  finds  this  vigorous  desire  departing. 
The  mists  of  evening  can  be  likened,  in  heavy 
heads,  to  nothing  more  than  pillows.  A  water- 
fall is  figuratively  emptying  itself  into  a  por- 
celain tub;  and  the  first  light  from  a  farmhouse 
suggests  the  comfort  of  four  enveloping  walls. 

We  did  not  need  to  enter  the  heart  of  the  town. 
The  Illustrator  drew  up  alongside  a  very  pretty 
young  woman  and  asked  the  way.  The  impres- 
sion he  might  have  created  was  destroyed  by  a 
prominent  yawn  from  me — which  distracted  her 
attention.  But  she  pointed  the  way,  and  in  a 


COLONIAL  TRADITIONS 

minute  we  were  before  the  old-fashioned  hostelry. 

The  landlord  was  at  the  desk,  rather  sternly 
courteous,  possibly  because  I  laughed  when  he 
retailed  the  prices.  Our  living  was  modest 
enough.  But  it  seems  out  of  proportion  to  pay 
but  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents  for  a  room,  bath, 
light,  attendance,  and  two  excellent  meals,  when 
our  poor  motor-car  must  disgorge  a  dollar  for 
spending  one  night  in  a  dull  stable,  with  not  a 
mouthful  of  good  cheer. 

The  luggage  was  bumped  upstairs  and  we 
found  ourselves  in  a  suite  so  tremendous  that  we 
could  very  easily  have  accommodated  the  auto- 
mobile if  we  could  have  taken  it  in  without  at- 
tracting attention. 

It  was  too  good  to  be  true  for  the  money,  and, 

as  W said,  something  must  be  the  matter 

with  it.  It  turned  out  to  be  the  bath,  and  I 
mildly  approached  the  clerk  as  we  went  down 
to  supper. 

;<  The  hot  water  won't  run,"  I  said  firmly. 

"  Won't  run  or  won't  run  hot? "  he  asked. 

'  Won't  do  either,"  I  answered. 

!<  This  house  was  built  in  1776,"  said  the  clerk. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  an  apology  or 
a  boast,  but,  as  in  Great  Barrington,  the  reply 
at  the  desk  "  held  me." 


CHAPTER  V 

7  Meet  Some  Innkeepers  and  the  Illustrator 
Discovers  a  Joke 

IT  rained  in  the  night — fain  on  a  tin  roof.  The 
sound  was  tantalising,  for  one  would  stay  awake 
to  enjoy  it,  yet  was  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  music 
of  the  patter. 

The  Illustrator  was  not  so  sentimentally  af- 
fected. I  heard  him  sigh  heavily  as  he  grew 
aware  of  this  descent  from  the  heavens.  His 
voice  floated  out  from  the  darkness  of  his  room: 
"There!  I  knew  it  would  rain  if  I  had  that 
car  washed! " 

By  leaving  off  my  hair-net  I  managed  to  get 
down  to  breakfast  before  the  stern  dining-room 
doors  were  closed.  W is  always  let  in  grudg- 
ingly after  the  bars  are  up,  by  pleading  that  his 
breakfast  is  ordered. 

While  touring  in  America,  I  noticed  that  the 
size  of  the  first  meal  increased  from  the  European 
coffee  and  crescent  roll  to  fruit,  cereal,  eggs  and — 
griddle-cakes.  It  was  the  prospect  of  griddle- 
cakes  that  got  my  travelling  companion  down- 
stairs shortly  after  the  closing  hour. 

-*-73-«- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

Cakes  are  the  breakfast  specialty  of  every  hotel 
in  New  England,  and  they  are  accompanied  by 
Vermont  maple  syrup,  running  the  whole  gamut 
of  colour,  from  the  deep  shade  of  New  Orleans 
molasses  to  a  palish  tinge,  like  moonshine  whiskey. 
I  interviewed  a  number  of  waitresses  on  this  di- 
versity of  colour  and  only  one  of  them  had  any 
theory  beyond  that  "  it  comes  that  way."  Three 
days  later  a  gloomy  girl  in  glasses  said,  in  defence 
of  the  paler  syrup,  that  she  "  'sposed  trees  had  as 
much  right  to  be  anemic  as  folks."  It  was  not 
a  pleasant  thought — this  drinking  up  the  life- 
blood  of  invalid  maples — and  we  put  sugar,  made 
from  healthy  beets,  on  our  cakes  that  morning. 

Breakfast  is  never  a  grouchy  meal  to  the 
motorist.  The  maps  are  distributed  among  the 
bird  bathtubs,  and  if  one  does  not  like  his  present 
environment,  he  can  fix  his  eye  on  a  black  line, 
leading  directly  from  the  hotel  which  he  knows 
he  will  soon  be  taking.  He  knows,  too,  that  it 
will  not  be  a  black  line  on  the  face  of  the  green 
earth,  but  a  white  highway,  bordered  by  flowers, 
sprinkled  with  chickens,  and  conducting  him 
through  a  lovely  landscape  to  other  hostelries 
where  he  may  again  play  the  game  of  chance. 

Although  guests  stay  through  the  summer  in 
these  hotels,  and  settled  white-haired  ladies  live 
the  year  round  in  some  of  them,  the  feeling — to 

-j-  74-*- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

the  motorist  at  least — is  that  all  are  in  transit. 
Conscious  of  this,  we  pass  the  biscuits  to  table 
companions  politely,  for  no  better  reason  than 
that  we  may  be  wanting  gasoline,  or  some  such 
commodity  of  them  further  along  the  route. 

At  our  table,  which  chanced  to  be  a  long  one, 
there  were  several  sprightly  ladies  whom  we 
had  seen  at  the  hotel  the  day  before.  The 
woman  who  owned  the  car  was  paying  her 
lengthy  bill  at  the  desk  as  we  had  approached  to 
register  ( !)  for  luncheon,  and  she  was  saying, 
with  what  might  be  called  manly  courage,  that  a 
charge  for  telephone  to  summon  her  car  from 
their  garage  was  a  "  bit  thick,"  and  she  didn't 
intend  to  stand  for  it. 

I  hung  about  long  enough  to  find  out  that  the 
ten  cents  was  removed  from  the  main  sum,  and 
saw  her  leave  with  her  friends,  two  men  on 
the  box,  and  an  engine  as  long  as  a  four-in- 
hand. 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  how  she  accommodated 
herself  to  the  simplicity  of  this  Inn.  Like  all 
philosophers  who  travel  far  (the  phrase  is  un- 
necessary, for  all  who  travel  far  become  philoso- 
phers), there  was  none  of  that  cheap  belittling  of 
modest  customs  which  was  once  thought  to  consti- 
tute wit. 

Indeed,  I  think  we  are  all  growing  out  of  the 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

boarding-house  form  of  badinage.  Food  is  not  as 
humorous  as  it  once  was.  Possibly  the  gravity 
of  paying  for  the  most  inconsequential  steak  in 
these  days  makes  a  direct  appeal  to  our  esteem. 
It  is  a  solemn  matter. 

There  were  other  women  guests  spending  the 
summer  in  Bennington  who  were  going  off  to  a 
"  circle,"  from  ten  to  one,  to  knit  socks  for  the 
Belgians.  This  was  the  real  spirit  for  this  famous 
Revolutionary  town.  Only  one  of  them  lacked 
the  enthusiasm  of  citizeness  Molly  Stark  by  de- 
claring that  three  hours  of  knitting  was  too  much 
for  her.  "Her  knitting,"  said  a  small  lady,  in  a 
small  voice,  after  she  had  quitted  the  room,  "  is 
too  much  for  a  Belgian  as  well." 

Bennington  is  so  full  of  historical  spots  that 
one  need  but  look  out  of  his  bedroom  window 
to  sightsee.  He  can  even  confine  himself  to  his 
room.  The  Walloomsac  Inn  was  built,  as  I  was 
told  the  night  before,  in  1776,  by  Captain  Elijah 
Dewey,  who  was  not  a  captain  for  being  an  inn- 
keeper, but  for  distinguishing  himself  in  .every 
war  to  which  his  long  legs  could  carry  him. 

While  there  was  much  assembling  of  officers  in 
this  hostelry,  it  was  the  Green  Mountain  Tavern, 
a  little  farther  along,  which  saw  many  of  the 
incidents  of  the  Revolution.  Not  content  with 
being  the  first  Vermont  state  house,  it  was  the 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

general  headquarters  of  Ethan  Allen.  Here, 
after  the  battle  of  Lexington,  he  mustered  the 
Green  Mountain  Boys  for  the  taking  of  Ticon- 
deroga;  here,  with  drawn  sword,  he  sent  flying 
Benedict  Arnold,  who  had  been  sent  to  take  com- 
mand of  this  regiment ;  here  he  made  his  plans  for 
the  battle  of  Bennington.  And  here  so  many 
bowls  of  punch  were  drunk,  to  judge  by  an  old 
bill  carefully  preserved,  that  I  was  in  a  frenzy 
to  get  out  and  see  the  place.  I  beg  that  my 
enthusiasm  will  not  arouse  you,  for,  after  all  this, 
I  discovered  that  the  building  had  had  the  bad 
taste  to  burn  down  a  year  before  I  was  born. 

In  the  midst  of  the  country's  disorders  the 
landlord  of  this  tavern  had  placed  a  stuffed  cata- 
mount over  his  door,  and  while  it  may  not  have 
been  put  there  as  an  emblem  of  Ethan  Allen, 
from  what  we  gather  of  this  vigorous  warrior 
it  was  not  unfitting. 

Now  a  bronze  catamount  is  erected  on  the  site, 
serving,  with  Yankee  thrift,  the  purpose  of  com- 
memorating the  tavern  and  Ethan  Allen,  and 
snarling  pointedly,  as  well,  toward  the  Brecken- 
ridge  farm,  which  New  York  state  and  New 
Hampshire  each  claimed.  It  was  on  this  farm 
that  Allen  and  his  famous  Boys  dispersed  the 
New  York  sheriff  and  a  posse  of  seven  hundred 
men,  who  had  come  to  take  possession  of  the 

H-77+- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

land.  This  successful  effort  made  Breckenridge 
farm  practically  the  birthplace  of  Vermont,  for 
the  state  then  was  but  part  of  the  New  Hamp- 
shire grants.  And  it  arrived  at  its  final  name  of 
Vermont  after  a  period  of  existence  as  New 
Connecticut. 

It  is  interesting  to  read  of  the  continual  inter- 
necine strife  among  the  states  to  claim  lands  as 
their  own,  and  to  discourage  rather  than  encour- 
age the  development  of  new  states,  while  at  the 
same  time  they  were  in  unison  against  a  foreign 
controlling  power.  It  may  be  some  satisfaction 
to  New  York  that  the  battle  of  Bennington  was, 
after  all,  four  miles  from  the  town  near  its  own 
village  of  Hoosick.  But  neither  New  York  state, 
nor  any  other  state  nor  country,  for  that  mat- 
ter, can  claim  as  lofty  a  shaft  of  stone  erected  to 
the  memory  of  a  battle. 

If  one  is  pressed  for  time  and  the  engine  sings 
purringly,  let  the  motorist  by  all  means  see  the 
monument.  It  commemorates  a  battle  of  three 
days,  raw  boys  against  a  trained  foreign  leader 
with  Indian  allies.  At  one  time  it  would  seem 
that  they  might  fail,  but  Captain  Seth  Warner 
roused  the  tired  men  into  greater  zeal  by  announc- 
ing that  they  would  soon  have  reinforcements,  and 
to  fight  on  until  their  arrival.  The  dramatic 
imagination  of  the  leader  was  sufficient.  The 

-j-78-e- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

British  withdrew,  and  Seth  Warner  was  become 
a  hero  from  a  well-placed  lie. 

Even  if  one  does  not  stop  for  all  the  tablets 
that  a  growing  appreciation  of  heroic  events  is 
placing  in  position,  he  cannot  but  feel  the  vigour 
of  the  town  that  has  ever  been  contending  for  the 
right.  After  the  French  and  Indian  War  and 
the  Revolution,  came  the  struggle  to  free  the 
slaves.  William  Lloyd  Garrison  established  his 
first  anti-slavery  newspaper  here  in  1828,  and 
years  later,  in  the  cellars  of  some  of  these  old 
houses  now  standing,  slaves  were  hidden  by  day, 
and  sent  a  Godspeed  by  night  toward  Canada. 
The  town  is  making  an  industrial  fight  at  present, 
to  vie  with  other  manufacturing  centres,  and  this, 
in  times  of  peace,  is  surely  as  fit  a  means  of 
righteous  advancement  as  any  other  form  of  de- 
velopment. 

We  were  loath  to  leave  Bennington.  Indeed, 
we  found  ourselves  quitting  each  charming  old 
town  with  a  regret  that  was  only  equalled  by  a 
desire  to  see  more  charming  old  towns.  Besides, 
the  day  was  coquettish,  blue  sky  to  tease  you 
along  and  grey  clouds,  like  fat  policemen,  hover- 
ing about,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Dance  in  the  sun- 
shine when  you  can,  we  are  apt  to  '  close  up '  this 
nonsense." 

As  we  turned  out  of  the   new  town  toward 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

Manchester  we  passed  a  soldiers'  home,  fittingly 
located  here.  One  old  fellow  was  walking  feebly 
along  the  road.  Both  the  chauffeur  and  the 
Illustrator  saluted  him,  but  he  did  not  reply,  and 
I  felt  that  the  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic  was 
getting  old,  indeed,  when  it  found  no  joy  in  the 
return  of  a  courtesy. 

We  stopped  at  the  ancient  covered  bridge 

across  the  Walloomsac  River  for  W to  make 

a  sketch.  He  went  about  it  full  of  revolutionary 
zeal,  and  I  assisted  him  over  a  stone  fence  and 
handed  him  his  materials.  It  was  one  of  his 
arguments  when  we  first  tremulously  discussed 
buying  a  car  that  it  would  be  a  great  saving  of 
expense.  On  pinning  him  down  the  saving  was  in 
a  sketching  stool  and  occasional  pennies  for  the 
borrowing  of  a  chair,  for,  he  contended,  he  would 
never  have  to  get  out  of  the  machine  at  all. 

But  compositions  in  nature  must  be  wooed  by 
sitting  in  damp  alleys  or  wet  fields  or  dirty  farm- 
yards— anywhere  in  fact  that  a  motor  cannot  go. 
In  this  case  he  leaped  from  rock  to  rock  in  the 
river,  seeking  the  best  vantage  points,  each  leap 
followed  by  a  contortion  of  the  body  in  the  effort 
to  recover  his  balance,  which  would  have  been 
funny  except  that  our  artist  could  both  see  and 
hear  me. 

Having  explored  the  river  he  returned  to  the 
-»-80-*- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

less  dangerous  spot  which  he  had  first  selected — 
the  usual  course  of  procedure — and  went  to  work. 
It  was  very  quiet.  I  could  hear  our  little  clock 
tick,  and  the  click  of  golf  balls  on  the  course 
across  the  road.  The  tumbling  of  the  river  but 
added  to  the  peace,  or  as  some  one  else  has  more 
beautifully  put  it :  "  The  noises  that  go  to  make 
up  the  great  silence." 

After  a  while  W spoke,  in  fragments,  and, 

to  a  stranger,  after  the  fashion  of  a  madman. 
"  Well— don't,"  he  said.  A  pause.  "I'll  give 
you  five  more  minutes."  Another  pause.  Our 
young  driver  looked  at  me  inquiringly.  I  shook 
my  head.  "  Oh,  come  on " — impatiently  from 
the  artist. 

I  watched  the  road  and  called  to  him.  "  It  will 
be  here  soon." 

"Do  you  see  it?"  excitedly  from  him. 

"  It's  coming — here  it  is." 

And  the  sun,  creeping  down  the  road,  shone 
upon  the  Illustrator's  subject.  With  hasty 
strokes  he  put  in  the  lights  and  shadows,  which 
he  had  been  waiting  to  get. 

"  Got  him,  doggone  him,  but  he  was  sickly," 
and  the  Illustrator  climbed  back  into  the  car. 

The  sun  has  always  been  at  variance  with  him, 
and  in  England,  owing  to  his  tenacity  of  purpose, 
I  have  often  despaired  of  motoring  beyond  the 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

first  sketch.  And  it  is  particularly  annoying  after 
putting  in  weak  high  lights,  as  it  were,  to  find 
one's  self  in  a  white  heat  of  sunshine  a  little 
further  on. 

A  little  further  on  the  sun  was  shining  so  beau- 
tifully on  a  house  that  I  begged  for  a  photograph, 
and  in  this  way  we  stopped  and  talked  to  Ruby, 
who  was  skipping  a  rope,  and  said  the  house  of 
sunshine  was  hers. 

Ruby  was  a  little  girl,  with  an  old-fashioned 
blond  pig-tail,  who  was  uncertain  about  her  last 
name.  Her  father  worked  in  a  mill  whose  wheels 
were  turned  by  the  water  in  front  of  her  own 
doorstep.  She  had  a  father,  but  no  last  name,  she 
contended,  and  we  were  much  embarrassed  by  the 
social  problem  presented. 

However,  she  was  in  those  tender  years  when 
all  conventions  were  but  phrases  learned  in  books 
and  used  at  random.  She  accepted  chocolates 
at  our  hands,  and  when  gently  prodded  into  a 
fitting  reply  for  these  benefits,  hopped  in  the  mud 
and  said,  "  You're  welcome."  Possibly  she  recog- 
nised that  we  were  the  real  benefactors,  follow- 
ing the  principle  that  it  is  more  blessed  to  give 
than  to  receive. 

As  she  expressed  a  desire  to  dance  before  the 
wheels,  when  we  made  ready  to  go  we  took  her 
into  the  car  with  us  and  gave  her  a  little  ride, 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

as  the  only  sure  avoidance  of  running  over  her. 
Her  mother,  who  was  hanging  out  clothes  in  the 
yard,  waved  to  us  complacently  as  we,  in  the 
evident  process  of  kidnapping,  went  by.  It  is 
astonishing  how  a  woman  with  a  baby  in  one  arm 
and  a  handbag  in  the  other  will  trust  any  stranger 
with  carrying  the  child  while  she  suspiciously 
holds  on  to  the  bag. 

I  expressed  this  to  W ,  and  the  chauffeur, 

who  is  ordinarily  a  silent  young  man,  burst  into 
a  story,  which,  as  part  of  a  motor  trip,  although 
no  part  of  a  motor,  shall  be  recorded.  It  was 
about  his  aunt  and  dog,  both  of  whom  lived  in  a 
New  York  flat,  and  the  dog  "  died  on  her."  She 
was  fond  of  the  animal  and  would  not  consign  it 
to  the  gutter.  So  she  laid  it  out  in  a  neat  box  and 
prepared  for  a  trip  to  Staten  Island  where  friends 
would  give  it  a  Christian  burial. 

It  was  a  heavy  dog,  and  she  had  other  parcels, 
and  when  a  kindly  man  at  the  ferry  gates  offered 
to  relieve  her,  she,  without  explanation,  granted 
him  the  large  trim  coffin.  She  never  saw  him 
again,  or,  rather,  she  saw  but  his  coat  tails  as  he 
flew  across  Battery  Park  with  his  stolen  valu- 
ables. 

"  And  everybody  thought  my  aunt  was  crazy 
the  way  she  laughed,"  he  concluded,  leaving  the 
real  denouement  to  our  own  imagination.  Which 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

was  very  delicate  of  one  who  does  not  make  an 
income  out  of  stories. 

Wooing  the  sunshine  became  our  principal  occu- 
pation that  day,  but  the  country  was  so  de- 
lightful that  the  Illustrator  could  not  forbear 
sketching,  and  as  I  discovered  that  the  only  way 
to  avoid  being  in  a  photograph  was  to  take  it  I 
carried  the  camera. 

We  stopped  at  four  cross-roads  because  there 
was  a  mill  and  a  pond  and  ducks.  I  was  some 
time  learning  that  the  place  was  South  Shafts- 
bury,  for  I  asked  the  name  of  a  man  driving  by 
in  a  wagon,  and  found  that  he  was  tongue-tied. 
Still  Thouth  Thathbury  was  fascinating — bar- 
ring the  sun  and  the  ducks.  The  sun  would  shine 
on  the  Illustrator  but  not  on  his  subject,  and 
while  I  photographed  him  a  number  of  times  in 
a  strong  high  light,  and  told  him  so,  he  replied, 
rather  savagely,  that  he  could  not  sketch  him- 
self, and  if  he  did  a  cloud  would  burst  all  over 
him. 

The  ducks,  when  it  came  time  to  be  drawn, 
swam  under  the  bridge  and  had  to  be  pebbled 
into  position.  A  pretty  girl,  of  about  sixteen, 
crossed  the  bridge  carrying  her  father's  dinner. 
She  was  the  miller's  daughter  and  very  good  at 
pebbling.  She  said  ducks  were  "  kind  of  un- 
ruly," and  laughed  pleasantly;  her  hair  blew 


THK    Mil. I.    I'OM),   SOl'lII    SHAKTESBURY 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

about,  and  she  was  so  altogether  what  a  miller's 
daughter  ought  to  be  that  I  found  our  young 
chauffeur  making  frantic  efforts  to  get  out  his 
derby  before  she  had  passed  on. 

Her  pretty  friendliness  drove  me  into  the  mill 
to  see  what  nice  kind  of  father  she  possessed.  He 
was  a  gentle  little  man  with  spectacles,  who  would 
have  better  fitted  a  high  stool  in  a  banking  office, 
except  that  in  New  England  even  the  road- 
menders  have  a  certain  mental  air  about  them, 
and  I  put  this  down  to  a  longer  American  pedi- 
gree than  the  rest  of  our  country  can  boast. 

I  told  him  that  I  was  from  Indiana  and  that 
my  grandfather  had  a  flour  mill,  too.  "  Did  it 
run  by  steam? "  he  asked.  I  was  obliged  to 
admit  that  it  did.  "  Mine  goes  by  the  water- 
power  and  the  old  wheel  still,"  he  answered.  He 
looked  about  the  small  granary  peacefully. 
'  Time  has  passed  me  by,  I  guess." 

There  was  no  bitterness  in  his  voice.  No  man 
is  a  failure  who  does  not  lament  it. 

I  told  him  that  the  artist  did  not  pass  him  by 
and  nodded  toward  the  Illustrator.  At  which 
he  smiled  in  rather  an  embarrassed  way,  and  in 
the  silence  offered  me  some  wheat  that  had  come 
from  Indiana.  This  I  accepted,  solemnly  putting 
it  into  my  mouth,  and  I  grew  very  young  again, 
as  I  made  my  way  to  the  car  munching  the  ker- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

nels  into  a  paste,  as  I  had  done  in  my  grand- 
father's mill  a  good  many  years  ago. 

My  grandfather  and  I  used  to  drive  home  in 
a  sort  of  phaeton  that  had  a  little  seat  in  front 
which  folded  up,  making  itself  small  and  low 
against  the  dashboard.  I  thought  of  him  as  we 
whirled  on  in  the  automobile.  He  died  before 
even  the  electric  trams  were  installed,  but  he  took 
my  mother  many  miles  to  see  the  first  train  go 
through  their  part  of  the  country.  "  It's  not 
going  to  stop  here,"  she  tells  me  he  said.  And 
I  began  wishing  passionately  that  he  could  be 
enjoying  the  motor  trip  with  us  up  to  Man- 
chester. 

An  old  farmer,  looking  as  did  James  A.  Herne 
in  Shore  Acres,  jogged  by,  bowing  to  us,  a  custom 
that  is  dying  out  since  the  road  has  become  more 
generally  peopled.  But  they  all  spoke  to  my 
grandfather  when  we  drove  out  in  the  sort  of 
phaeton  to  see  the  early  wheat,  and  it  got  into 
my  head,  along  with  the  sunshine,  and  the  wind, 
and  scudding  clouds,  that  he  was  really  sitting 
alongside  of  me  commanding  the  old-time  recog- 
nition. 

Soon  after  we  met  a  lad  driving  a  road  scraper, 
who  cursed  us  so  long  and  loud  for  startling  his 
horses  that  I  think  the  old,  old  gentleman  by  my 
side  was  frightened  away.  At  all  events  we  be- 

-+86-*- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

came  very  material  and  hungry,  and  speeded  up 
for  Manchester. 

The  Automobile  Club  of  Vermont,  who,  no 
doubt,  employed  the  youth  who  cursed  us,  has 
sign-posted  the  roads  ably,  and  it  was  near 
Arlington  that  we  found  a  warning  of  a  railway 
crossing  ahead,  such  as  we  had  seen  only  in 
France.  It  is  a  large  painted  sign  of  a  white 
picket  fence,  which  is  excellent  to  the  traveller 
whose  pace  is  rapid.  That  is,  it  is  excellent  if  the 
motorist  knows  what  the  white  picket  fence  stands 
for.  But  one  soon  learns  these  symbols,  and 
after  nine  years'  experience,  I  can  almost  tell 
which  way  the  road  will  curve  when  we  are  con- 
fronted by  a  large  "  S  "  and  a  small  black  dot 
representing  the  automobile. 

Beyond  Arlington  (which  has  the  pleasant  in- 
novation of  oil-lamps  bracketed  to  the  elms  in  its 
one  wide  street)  we  stopped  again,  for  the  sun 
was  shining  and  there  were  Alderney  cows  on  the 
safe  side  of  a  stone  fence  in  a  mood  for  having 
their  pictures  taken.  I  had  no  sooner  descended 
with  the  camera,  however,  than  I  discovered  on 
my  side  the  fence  a  young  ram  with  an  aspira- 
tion to  try,  not  his  budding  wings,  but  his  budding 
horns.  This  bucolic  incident  sent  us  on  to  fash- 
ionable Manchester  in  a  spirit  ready  for  the  re- 
sumption of  genteel  life. 

-e-87-f- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

The  town  had  been  prefaced  by  advertisements 
urging  us  to  buy  Dutchess  trousers  on  one  board 
and  twin  beds  on  another.  Our  chauffeur,  under 
the  impression  that  the  title  Duchess  was  spelled 
with  a  "  t "  became  wildly  anti- suffragette  over 
the  sign.  He  said  Plymouth  Rock  was  a  good 
enough  name  for  trousers,  but  to  call  them  after 
a  lady  was  an  insult  both  to  the  lady  and  the 
wearing  apparel.  He,  for  one,  would  never  wear 
them. 

We  thought  the  urging  of  a  motoring  party  by 
a  shopkeeper  to  buy  twin  beds  and  carry  them 
along  with  the  rest  of  the  impedimenta  was  quite 
as  foolish,  and  our  perplexity  was  not  ironed  out 
until  we  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  village. 
Here  we  discovered  that  it  was  an  inn  so  elabo- 
rately airing  its  equipment.  And  a  very  sad- 
looking  inn  it  was  in  spite  of  its  appealing 
furnishings. 

We  passed  the  famous  Ekwanok  Country  Club 
on  our  right  before  arriving  at  the  Equinox 
House.  Here  the  National  Amateur  Golf  Cham- 
pionship was  played  in  July  over  a  course  as 
perfect  as  one  can  find  in  America.  Indeed,  this 
country  club  appears  to  be  the  rcdson  d'etre  of 
Manchester  and  the  hotel.  The  Equinox  Moun- 
tains on  our  left  and  the  Green  Mountains  on  the 
right  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  the 

-«-88-*- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

success  of  Manchester  some  years  back,  but  one 
feels  that  the  beauties  of  climate  and  landscape 
are,  at  present,  subsidiary  to  the  value  of  the 
clicking  ball. 

The  hotel  is  like  a  vast  club  in  itself.  A  call 
board  in  the  hallway  is  plastered  with  announce- 
ments of  coming  events  and  records  of  past  con- 
tests; sporting  prints  adorn  the  wall,  and  I  could 
find  no  stationery  at  the  desks  in  the  writing- 
room,  but  an  unlimited  number  of  score-cards. 

The  rooms  were  very  pleasant.  A  selection  of 
furniture  can  be  harmonious  yet  not  limited  to 
any  one  period.  One  cannot  see  this  more  charm- 
ingly exemplified  than  in  the  present  instance. 
Outside  it  was  perfectly  uniform,  its  succession  of 
white  temples  added  to  the  old  building  as  re- 
quirements demanded,  but  inside  was  a  medley 
of  past  and  present  with  none  of  the  air  of  an 
auction-room. 

The  men  and  women  were  in  outing  clothes,  but 
there  was  the  same  controlled  enthusiasm  among 
them  that  we  found  in  all  of  the  hotels.  It 
was  rather  a  relief  to  hear  one  husband  ask  his 
wife  if  she  had  packed  up  everything. 

" 1  have,  cross-patch,"  she  answered. 

"  Bet  you  left  out  something,"  he  growled. 
But  he  had  lost  his  morning  game  of  golf. 

We  left  just  as  the  orchestra  had  set  in  play- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

ing — for  one  is  spared  eating  to  ragtime — and  we 
motored  away  to  the  tune  of  "  He  Wouldn't 
Believe  Me."  Neither  "  he "  nor  any  one  else 
would  believe  that,  after  the  turn  of  the  road 
at  Manchester  Depot,  we  were  still  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  luxury.  It  is  this  sudden  plung- 
ing into  what  appears  to  be  unexplored  country, 
after  one  has  enjoyed  every  comfort  known  to 
hotel  science,  that  makes  motoring  in  America  so 
distinct  from  that  in  any  other  land.  It  is  hard 
to  find  a  more  satisfactory  combination.  Rugged 
scenery  and  a  soft  bed  at  the  end  of  the  day 
should  reach  both  stoic  and  epicurean. 

We  crossed  the  Green  Mountains  with  Cornish 
for  our  destination — provided  we  were  not  too 
highly  entertained  en  route — over  the  Peru  Turn- 
pike. A  turnpike  originally  meant  a  road  on 
which  a  toll-gate  is  established,  and  the  custom 
is  still  maintained  over  the  Peru  Mountain.  The 
collection  was  made  by  a  man  as  ancient  as  the 
sign  on  which  was  painted  the  tariff,  both  of  them 
disinclined  to  any  innovation  beyond  an  adden- 
dum in  irregular  script  at  the  bottom  of  the  list 
of  taxable  vehicles,  to  the  effect  that  an  auto- 
mobile must  pay  fifty  cents. 

This  was  a  "  bit  stiff  "  for  a  road  not  worth  a 
dime,  yet  not  out  of  proportion  to  other  charges, 
for  a  "  pleasure  sleigh,"  drawn  by  two  horses, 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

commanded  twenty  cents,  and  one  can  imagine 
nothing  less  wearing  to  the  road  than  a  pleasure 
sleigh. 

For  the  honour  of  Vermont  we  were  glad  to 
learn  that  this  pass  over  the  mountains  was  owned 
by  a  private  concern.  Years  back  they  had  se- 
cured a  franchise  as  enduring  as  an  endless  chain, 
and  had  so  far  defeated  the  legislature  from  tak- 
ing over  the  road,  and  the  care  of  it,  by  the  state. 
There  were  men  at  work  improving  the  way  as 
we  bumped  along,  wearing  red  flannel  shirts,  like 
individual  danger-signals,  each  hiding  his  shame 
of  the  roadbed  behind  a  fierce  moustache.  I 
caught  the  eye  of  one  as  it  was  uneasily  shifting 
from  one  rut  to  another.  "  Ideal  tour,  eh? "  I 
questioned.  "  I  get  you,"  he  answered. 

We  have  a  flippant  friend  who  has  evolved  a 
creed  out  of  mental  science,  pure-food  talks,  and 
the  current  urgings  to  better  ourselves.  It  re- 
curred to  me  as  we  went  over  this  pass :  "  Look 
up,  not  down;  look  out,  not  in;  chew  your  food; 
lend  a  hand." 

One  need  follow  only  the  first  mandate  to  feel 
that  this  five  miles  of  poor  going  is  worth  the 
effort.  When  we  looked  up  all  difficulties  ceased, 
for  nothing  could  be  more  lovely  than  the  woods 
through  which  we  were  passing  or  the  views  of 
rolling  mountains  that  the  cleared  spaces  dis- 

-j-91-t- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

closed.  It  was  from  these  hills  that  Ethan  Allen 
drew  those  wondrous  "  Boys,"  stern  as  the  rock- 
ribbed  land  in  their  purpose,  rich  as  the  forest 
growth  in  their  strength,  yet  with  a  surface  equip- 
ment as  poor  as  the  road  which  we  traversed. 
Come  to  think  of  it — and  now  that  we  are  over 
the  mountain — I  shouldn't  have  that  road  any 
different. 

As  though  we  were  not  appreciating  the  land- 
scape sufficiently,  a  clean  new  sign  suddenly  an- 
nounced :  "  Go  slow,  you  are  approaching " 

leaving  us  in  delicious  doubt  until  we  had  rounded 
the  next  curve  and  found  that  this  was  but  the  first 
installment  of  a  series.  "  Some  of  the  grandest 
scenery  on  earth—  '  continued  the  eulogy,  until 
it  ended  up  in  a  fifth  placard  advising  us  to  stop 
at  the  Bromley  House,  Peru. 

We  did  this,  attracted  by  a  large  stuffed  bear 
outside  the  hotel,  with  our  affections  held  by  an 
English  sheep  dog  and  a  collie  who,  in  the  friend- 
liest fashion,  leaped  upon  and  knocked  me  down. 

There  was  a  well,  with  a  sweep,  in  the  yard — 
something  that  our  chauffeur  had  never  seen 
before  and  who  begged  for  an  explanation  of  the 
long  pole  with  the  bucket  on  the  end.  It  occurred 
to  me  of  the  number  of  things  which  we  will  have 
to  explain  to  the  young  people  who  are  now 
toddling  about.  The  wells  themselves  will  soon 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

be  obsolete,  many  kinds  of  wagons  and  private 
carriages,  and  street-cars,  with  horses,  are  already 
being  defined  to  the  youngster  of  the  alert  West- 
ern town.  It  is  only  New  York  City  which 
sports  a  small  car  drawn  by  a  meagre  horse  with 
the  glorious  sign  of  "  Metropolitan." 

The  proprietor  of  the  Bromley  Inn  came 
vaguely  down  to  greet  us.  His  face  had  been 
recently  cut  and  scarred,  and  it  was  evident  that 
he  was  suffering  under  some  mental  and  physi- 
cal depression.  As  a  result  of  this  it  was  diffi- 
cut  to  find  his  vulnerable  point.  The  geniality 
of  a  Boniface  seemed  to  be  entirely  lacking.  He 
has  on  the  exterior  wall  of  his  home  a  large  fire- 
place of  cobblestones,  and  although  this  was  a 
novelty  he  was  indifferent  to  our  praise  of  it. 
Preferably  we  would  not  have  praised  it,  as  it 
seems  rather  foolish  to  heat  all  creation  when,  by 
going  around  on  the  other  side  the  wall,  one  could 
be  more  comfortable  with  less  expense  for  fuel. 

Nor  did  he  grow  warm  to  our  mild  enthusiasm 
over  the  stuffed  bear.  It  was  not  until  I,  feeling 
that  it  was  time  for  the  truth,  admitted  rather 
tartly  that  I  hated  to  see  wild  animals  stuffed 
and  set  up  for  people  to  stare  at  that  he  thawed 
at  all.  He  said  he  didn't  like  it  either,  and  as  far 
as  he  was  concerned  he  would  rather  have  a  live 
bear  for  a  companion  than  a  live  man. 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

He  walked  down  the  road  with  us  toward  a 
large  paddock,  where  he  had  brought  up  some 
deer.  They  came  running  to  greet  him,  and 
leaped  in  the  air  like  little  lambkins  at  play. 
The  dogs  were  very  jealous,  and  all  the  animals 
vied  with  each  other  for  his  favour.  He  owned 
large  tracts  of  virgin  forests  about  here,  virgin 
forests,  he  emphasised,  and  there  was  a  glow  in 
the  words  that  set  the  imagination  tingling.  For- 
ests where  man  had  never  trod!  And  if  we  ever 
had  time  to  come  back  and  stay  with  him,  he 
would  take  us  there. 

'  The  animals  live  as  they  should,  and  as  long 
as  I  can  hold  on  to  that  property  they  are  going 
to  continue  that  way.  A  bear  up  in  my  woods," 
he  concluded,  "  doesn't  know  what  a  shot  means." 

We  shook  hands  at  parting  and  he  broke 
through  his  wall  of  Yankee  reserve  to  ask  that 
we  pardon  any  stiffness  we  might  find  in  his 
manner.  "  I  had  a  bad  fire  last  week,"  he  said, 
as  though  ashamed  of  his  emotion.  "  My  ances- 
tral home  burned  down.  I  like  old  things  and 
I'm  sort  of  lonely  still.  You  come  back  in  the 
spring.  The  spring  makes  everything  all  right." 

Ah!  the  cry  of  us  all.  How  we  count  upon  re- 
creation to  stir  the  sluggish  blood  in  our  hearts. 

We  learned  more  of  our  old  gentleman  at  our 
next  stopping-place.  We  need  not  have  stopped, 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

we  knew  that  we  could  never  get  to  our  friends  in 
Cornish  that  night  if  we  continued  puttering 
along  the  way.  But  puttering  is  one  of  the  joys 
of  the  motorist.  For  years  I  looked  from  car- 
windows,  looked  regretfully  as  we  whirled  past 
old  farmhouses  which  deserved  a  second  glance, 
past  brooks  that  one  should  sit  by,  woods  one 
should  enter  for  a  while,  but  the  relentless  wheels 
carried  us  on  until  we  had  arrived  at  some  dull 
wooden  station  which  no  one  wished  to  see,  bear- 
ing on  the  front  the  name  of  a  muddy  town  which 
no  one  wished  to  visit. 

In  revenge  for  these  years  we  now  stop  when- 
ever we  wish,  and  at  RowelTs  Inn,  near  Simons- 
ville,  we  flung  ourselves  out  and  rushed  upon  Mr. 
Rowell.  There  is  a  tumbling  brook  within  sound 
of  the  bedrooms  in  this  spotless  inn,  there  are 
mountains  at  the  back,  with  a  good  road  for  good 
cheer  in  front,  and  there  is  Mrs.  Rowell  in  the 
kitchen,  famous  for  her  cooking,  and  Mr.  Row- 
ell on  the  front  porch  to  tell  us  all  about  it. 

He  asked  immediately  of  the  melancholy  old 
gentleman  whom  we  had  just  left  and  if  his 
scars  had  healed.  It  was  then  we  learned  that 
he  had  risked  his  life  trying  to  get  his  mother- 
in-law  out  of  his  burning  ancestral  home.  "  He 
is  a  hero,"  said  Mr.  Rowell.  We  thought  it  very 
like  the  proprietor  of  Bromley's  Inn  to  have  said 

-f-95-j- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

nothing  of  this,  rather  permitting  us  to  carry 
away  an  impression  of  his  taciturnity  than  any 
more  glowing  attribute. 

"  And  to  do  it  for  his  mother-in-law,"  delicately 
commented  the  Illustrator.  All  of  which  was 
very  unnecessary,  as  he  has  the  best  mother-in- 
law  in  the  world,  but  Mr.  Rowell  smiled  indul- 
gently and  said  he  guessed  the  world  would  be 
a  good  deal  older  than  it  is  before  the  mother-in- 
law  joke  grew  stale.  This  quieted  the  Illustrator, 
who  wants  to  be  the  original  discoverer  of  all 
jokes. 

We  left  the  inn  mad  with  regret,  and  we 
advise  such  of  those  as  have  no  waiting  friends 
in  Cornish  to  spend  the  night  there,  or  at  least 
to  stay  for  a  meal.  With  a  little  connivance  the 
traveller  can  avoid  all  the  big  hotels  and  find  him- 
self living  most  excellently  in  the  country  hos- 
telries.  That  is,  if  he  "  loves  the  cows  and  chick- 
ens," and  is  not  too  keen  "  to  raise  the  dickens." 

Such  a  trip  as  the  one  we  had  just  made  over  the 
Green  Mountains  deserves  a  lodge  in  the  wilder- 
ness at  the  end  of  the  run.  I  would  not  urge  it 
should  we  make  ourselves  uncomfortable.  Fresh 
air  is  excellent,  no  doubt,  yet  I  find  those  who 
have  been  sniffing  adulterated  ozone  ever  since 
their  birth  to  be  in  the  enjoyment  of  as  good 
health  as  those  who  have  known  only  the  Simon- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

pure  article.  But  lodges  in  the  wilderness  like 
Rowell's  Inn  have  tiled  bathrooms,  running  water, 
spotless  linen — on  twin  beds,  and  there  is  air 
besides. 

We  departed  from  Simonsville,  not  knowing 
we  had  entered  it,  so  minute  is  the  village,  and  in 
this  manner  acquired  and  quitted  minuter  Lon- 
donderry— on  past  scattered  houses,  each  with 
something  to  sell:  sweet  cider  and  soft  drinks; 
rag  carpets  and  gasoline;  home-made  pies  and 
overalls. 

There  were  sawmills  along  the  route,  and  the 
only  one  comestible  not  for  sale  was  sawdust. 
Stern  placards  at  every  mill  absolutely  forbade 
us  to  buy  sawdust.  As  time  went  on  we  grew 
peevish  over  this,  and  felt  the  necessity  for  saw- 
dust as  we  had  never  felt  it  before.  We  realised, 
for  the  first  time,  the  various  uses  we  could  have 
made  of  a  large  sack  of  this  commodity.  If  we 
broke  down  we  could  sleep  upon  it;  the  chauffeur 
said  we  could,  at  a  pinch,  extract  some  nourish- 
ment from  it.  And  I  argued  that,  with  the  pur- 
chase of  a  machine  of  several  tons'  pressure,  we 
could  evolve  this  shifting  valuable  into  trays, 
toy  dogs,  Nubian  boys,  and,  no  doubt,  hats  and 
gloves. 

But  there  was  nothing  to  do  save  to  drive  past 
these  lost  opportunities  as  rapidly  as  possible, 

-»-97-t- 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

concentrating  on  a  sign  which  urged  us  to  buy 
our  soda  water  at  Dodge's.  Dodge  is  an  enter- 
prising man,  filling  the  woods  for  miles  with  his 
impassioned  plea.  The  only  trouble  with  Dodge 
is  his  too  early  attack  upon  the  automobilist. 
Long  before  we  reached  his  pharmacy  our  thirst 
had  so  developed  by  the  tempting  advertisement 
that  we  stopped  at  a  soda  fountain  this  side  his 
much-vaunted  one,  slaking  our  thirst  and  driving 
past  Dodge's  without  the  expenditure  of  a  dime. 

At  Chester  we  stopped  for  the  cheapest  gaso- 
line on  the  trip.  The  boy  who  brought  it  out 
said,  between  set  teeth,  that  Chester  was  bound 
every  auto  would  stop  there  if  only  for  a  minute, 
and  nothing  stopped  a  rich  man  like  cheap  gaso- 
line. It  was  an  uncomfortable  truth,  but  one 
could  not  deny  the  enterprise  of  the  village. 
Even  those  who  travel  by  rail  were  not  forgotten. 
In  the  shop  from  which  our  gasoline  was  pro- 
cured was  another  sign  indicating  that  mileage 
could  be  "Bought,  Sold,  or  Rented." 

And  this  brought  us  up,  with  a  bump,  against 
the  railway  once  more.  When  one  motors  he 
immediately  forgets  that  there  is  any  other  way 
of  getting  about,  and  after  a  day  in  the  woods 
is  snobbishly  surprised  to  hear  that  trains  are 
running  at  all. 

In  the  growing  dusk  we  picked  our  way  toward 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

Springfield,  directed,  or  rather  misdirected,  by  a 
perfect  fury  of  red  arrows  which,  had  they  not 
been  nailed  to  trees,  could  have  slaughtered  a  regi- 
ment. It  was  this  deadly  insistent  attack  that  set 
me  to  wondering  who  put  up  the  first  arrow  as 
an  emblem  to  point  the  way. 

I  leaned  over  and  asked  W this  and,  not 

knowing,  he  pretended  not  to  hear  me.  But 
who  did?  Our  imagination  now  embraces  the 
full  meaning  of  that  sharp  little  point.  Nothing 
could  be  more  fitting.  But  who  thought  of  it 
first?  I  again  prodded  the  Illustrator.  "  The 
worst  of  it  is,"  I  said  to  him,  "  there  isn't  any 
way  of  finding  out  except  to  ask  and  ask  and 
ask."  Still  he  did  not  answer,  and  I  sat  back 
moodily. 

We  were  approaching  the  mill  town  of  Spring- 
field, Vermont,  in  a  thick  darkness.  We  could 
never  get  to  Cornish,  and,  while  not  admitting  it, 
we  were  looking  for  the  Adna  Brown  Hotel  for 
our  resting-place.  It  was  on  our  left  and  could 
not  be  missed,  and  while  it  was  not  a  tourist 
hotel,  a  lanky  boy  came  out  promptly  to  take  off 
the  baggage.  I  started  briskly  up  the  stairs  to- 
ward the  desk,  as  it  is  ever  my  duty  to  look 
after  the  rooms,  but  the  Illustrator  stopped  me. 
He  is  a  marvellous  man — he  always  knows  of 
what  I  am  thinking. 


I  MEET  SOME  INNKEEPERS 

"  I  absolutely  forbid  you,"  he  said,  "  to  ask 
the  clerk  who  put  up  the  first  arrow  to  point  the 
way.  This  is  a  travelling  man's  hotel  and  they'll 
think  we're  crazy." 

So  I  didn't — until  morning. 


100 


CHAPTER  VI 

Concerning  Vermonters  and  their  Ways 

THERE  are  travelling  Americans  who  have  never 
seen  the  inside  of  the  hotel  which  depends  upon 
commercial  men  to  keep  it  going.  They  know 
the  large  houses  of  Florida,  the  huge  structures 
along  the  Northern  beaches,  the  caravansaries  in 
New  York,  but  they  pass  through  life  without 
experiencing  the  soggy  "  comforters "  of  the 
Middle  West,  the  short  sheets  of  the  South,  or — 
anywhere — the  overpowering  odour  of  an  aban- 
doned cigar-stub  which  cannot  be  found.  It  is  a 
pity,  for  this  traveller  never  fully  knows  the 
world. 

We  dined  recently  at  a  table  of  New  Yorkers 
where  not  one  of  the  women  guests  present  had 
ever  entered  the  Subway  save  myself.  I  realised 
that  I  should  have  very  little  to  say  to  them,  as 
my  main  topics  of  conversation  dealt  with  the 
events  that  I  witnessed  while  carrying  on  a  mole- 
like  existence  underground. 

I  was  sorry  for  them,  as  I  appreciated  how 
necessarily  limited  their  experiences  must  be  when 
they  must  ever  travel  to  and  fro  segregated  in 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

a  limousine,  like  a  lonely  wax  figure  in  a  show- 
case. How  can  they  possibly  know  how  the 
"  other  side  "  lives  when  they  meet  it  only  upon 
platforms  of  charitable  institutions.  Even  in  the 
excellent  course  of  settlement  work,  of  house-to- 
house  visiting,  one  endures  but  momentary  dis- 
comfort. But  a  trip  in  the  Subway  at  the  rush- 
hour  is  a  great  leveller.  We  are  a  unit  of  misery, 
save  that  some  are  sitting  down  and  some  are 
standing. 

But,  more  than  this,  what  there  is  of  humour 
is  also  for  the  massed  crowd.  I  shall  never  for- 
get my  gratitude  to  one  shabby  shopgirl  talking 
to  another  on  the  first  day  that  I  found  myself 
packed  in  with  no  room  to  raise  my  head  or  my 
hand,  and  rather  uncertain  about  the  existence 
of  one  of  my  feet.  The  desire  came  to  me  to 
scream  and  to  fight  my  way  out,  and  I  might 
have  done  so  but  for  the  shopgirl.  Her  con- 
versation was  for  me,  or  the  next  one,  or  all 
of  them  who  could  hear.  "  My  photos  come  out 
all  right,"  she  was  saying,  "  but  you  should  'a' 
seen  Gertie's — taken  readin'  a  book,  if  you  please. 
And  her  with  a  double  chin." 

This  extolling  of  the  seamy  side  of  life  may 
lead  one  to  believe  that  the  Adna  Brown  comes 
under  the  class  of  the  hotels  one  misses  by  a 
strictly  conventional  life.  Yet  it  is  not.  It  stands 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

as  a  pleasant  warning  that  these  conditions  are 
passing  in  America,  that  they  have  passed  in 
Springfield,  Vermont,  and  that  one  must  be  up 
and  about  it  if  he  wishes  to  experience  the  full 
value  of  the  poet's  verse:  "  Short  sheets  make  the 
night  seem  longer." 

In  every  mill  town  where  there  is  power  you 
will  find  your  room  blazing  with  light,  and  you 
will  find  each  year  added  private  bathrooms,  a 
decorous  array  of  towels,  and  an  inclination  on  the 
part  of  the  chambermaid  to  let  one  sleep  in  the 
morning  without  rattling  the  doorknob  every  five 
minutes. 

This  is  not  due  to  the  automobilist ;  rather,  to 
the  keen  little  men  who  arrive  with  huge  packing 
cases,  lay  out  their  wares  on  long  tables,  and,  I 
regret  to  say,  leave  the  door  open  to  stare  out 
as  you  pass  in  the  hall. 

It  is  the  drummer,  supposed  to  be  composed 
entirely  of  jokes,  who  is  as  vigorous  in  his  de- 
mands for  long  sheets  as  is  the  motorist  for  good 
roads.  His  presence  continues  after  we  have 
entered  a  room  and  he  has  quitted  it,  for  now 
we  find  a  Bible  in  most  of  the  hotels.  "  Placed 
in  this  hotel  by  the  Gideons,"  is  the  gold-lettered 
explanation  on  the  black  binding. 

This  is  an  oracular  statement  which  occasioned 
a  prompt  returning  to  the  office-desk  the  first 
-j-103-*- 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

time  I  found  such  a  volume.  Whereas  an  ac- 
quaintance of  mine,  under  the  impression  that 
they  were  left  as  an  offering  to  the  next  guest, 
carried  off  her  first  three  copies,  and  has  but 
lately  stilled  her  conscience  by  locating  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Gideons,  and  sending  them  a 
check.  For  this  band,  while  wanderers  in  the 
days  of  the  Old  Testament,  are  now  an  organised 
body  of  travelling  men,  scattering  stories  and 
Bibles  and  all  the  commodities  of  life  through- 
out the  land.  And  since  they  possess  a  sense 
of  humour  they  do  not,  as  did  a  certain  church 
house  who  made  an  effort  to  spread  the  gospel 
in  this  fashion,  chain  the  holy  books  to  the  dress- 
ing-tables. 

En  fin — let  us  thank  the  commercial  men  for 
an  excellent  night  in  Springfield,  I  comfortably 
in  my  room  during  the  evening,  and  W-  -  mak- 
ing short  flights  between  his  and  the  office,  where 
a  number  of  mill-owners  had  chanced  to  drop  in 
and,  hearing  of  our  enterprise,  urged  us  to  go 
over  the  city  in  the  morning.  We  rebelled 
against  this,  as  we  do  against  all  effort  toward 
the  improvement  of  our  minds,  and  when  morn- 
ing came  motored  hastily  away,  the  more  hastily 
as  I  had  made  the  blunder  of  tipping  one  of  the 
hotel  clerks  under  the  impression  that  he  was  a 
bell-boy.  He  had  been  industriously  serving  us 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

in  many  ways,  even  to  the  carrying  down  of  the 
baggage,  and  it  is  to  his  credit  that  he  did  not 
embarrass  me  by  a  refusal  of  the  coin,  but  swept 
it  magnificently  into  the  till  for  the  general  good 
of  the  Adna  Brown. 

A  bell-boy  in  a  hotel  of  modest  pretensions 
once  told  me  that  he  received  seven  dollars  a  week 
from  the  manager  and  made  twenty-five  more  out 
of  his  tips.  The  hotel  clerks  average,  I  believe, 
eighteen  dollars  weekly,  and  it  speaks  well  for 
the  spirits  which  "  never,  never  will  be  slaves " 
that  many  bell-boys  aspire  to  be  clerks,  but  no 
clerks  are  tempted,  by  monetary  considerations, 
to  be  bell-boys.  The  latter  class  in  America  are 
purely  in  a  transitional  stage.  Their  present 
servitude  does  not  seem  to  bar  them  from  a  future 
position  when  they  will  be  the  employers  and 
not  the  employed. 

In  spite  of  their  alertness,  however,  I  have 
not  found  them  a  promising  set  of  young  men. 
And  I  have  talked  with  them  of  their  ambitions 
until  the  Illustrator  has  "  ahemmed "  at  me 
loudly.  After  a  little  practice  one  can  make 
successful  deductions  without  interrogation.  If 
their  hands  are  large  they  wish  to  become  prize- 
fighters; if  inclined  to  stale  jokes  they  are  con- 
templating the  gay  life  of  a  drummer;  and  when 
the  hair  on  the  head  is  long  and  wavy  they  expect 
-J-105-J- 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

to  go  on  the  stage.  I  did  find  one  bright- faced 
lad  who  was  struggling  for  a  college  education, 
but  the  reason  for  his  efforts  was  to  "  put  it  all 
over  the  gang,"  and  while  this  may  be  a  more 
general  aspiration  among  university  men  than  is 
admitted,  it  is  not,  let  us  hope,  the  spirit  of  an 
embryo  president. 

At  this  point  I  have  been  gently  reminded  by 
the  man  looking  over  my  shoulder  that  our  story 
was  primarily  a  motoring  one,  and  any  wide 
divergence  is  not  only  a  breach  of  style,  but  one 
of  faith  to  the  man  who  might  wish  to  know  the 
road  to  Cornish. 

This  brings  me  promptly  back  to  the  road, 
which  was  a  very  good  one  out  of  Springfield, 
with  the  sun  shining  on  both  the  Illustrator 
and  myself — the  unjust  and  the  just — and  our 
chauffeur  so  elated  that  I  hoped  he  might 
be  feeling,  although  a  phlegmatic  youth,  the 
jubilation  of  mere  living.  But  it  was  not 
that — his  deep  satisfaction  was  occasioned  by  a 
reduction  in  the  garage  bill  for  the  night,  as 
the  proprietor  had  inferred  that  the  chauffeur 
was  hacking  the  car  "  because  it  looked  so  awful." 
And  while  we  endeavoured  to  beam  back  at  him, 
we  were  both  entertaining  the  shame  that  a 
parent  must  feel  over  a  dirty  baby. 

We  went  on,  feebly  polishing  the  brass  rail, 
:-*- 106  -*- 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

and  not  crossing  the  two  bridges  when  we  reached 
the  Connecticut  River,  but  on  up  the  left  bank, 
which  affords  good  going  and  few  travellers. 
There  were  skittish  horses  along  the  way,  which 
occasioned  a  gentle  manipulation  of  the  car  and 
a  great  deal  of  patience.  We  were  reminded  of 
the  questions  put  to  a  young  chauffeur  applying 
for  a  license. 

'  What  would  you  do  if  you  met  a  frightened 
horse?"  severely  asked  that  power  that  issues 
licenses. 

"  Slow  down  the  car,"  said  the  aspirant 
promptly. 

"And  if  still  frightened?" 

"Stop  the  car." 

"And  still  frightened?" 

"  Stop  the  engine." 

"And  still  frightened?" 

"  Get  out  and  lead  it  past." 

"  And  still- 

"  Oh,  thunder !  Take  the  car  to  pieces  and 
hide  it  in  the  grass." 

This  was  told  us  in  the  desert  of  the  Sahara, 
as  we  were  coaxing  a  caravan  of  camels  past 
our  automobile,  so  I  do  not  present  it  as  a  fresh 
incident — it  takes  many  repetitions  before  a  story 
reaches  the  Sahara. 

With  a  like  benevolent  intention,  we  stopped 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

the  car  for  a  black  dog,  which  held  to  an  in- 
clination to  suicide  by  racing  us  under  the  wheels. 
Life  seemed  uncommonly  good  to  him  after  his 
rescue,  and  he  twisted  himself  gratefully  when 
we  descended  to  sketch  his  ancestral  mansion. 

The  owner  of  the  black  dog  (the  black  dog's 
name  was  Brownie)  also  lived  in  the  house  and 
took  me  up  to  see  his  wife,  who  thought — out 
loud,  through  the  window — that  she  ought  to 
change  her  apron,  but  was  induced  to  let  it  re- 
main, clean  and  blue-checked. 

She  was  wiry  and  grey-haired  and  cheery,  and 
we  hippity-hopped  together  among  her  flower 
beds.  Many  of  the  posies  were  planted  in  old 
stone  jars,  which  they  had  found  in  the  house 
when  they  took  it,  and  "  he  "  had  painted  a  blue 
design  on  the  surface,  for  his  father  had  been  a 
sea  captain  and  he  had  always  liked  the  Chinese 
ginger- jars  that  he  once  brought  home  from  a 
cruise.  She  feared  an  early  frost,  as  the  nights 
were  so  cool,  and  that  her  late  roses  might  get 
a  nippin',  and  we  deprecated  the  chill  of  life, 
which  must  "  blight  us  all,"  as  she  put  it. 

I  congratulated  them  upon  having  a  stone 
house  in  which  to  keep  warm,  and  it  was  then 
I  learned  that  stone  houses  were  not  warm  and 
had  an  unfortunate,  if  industrious,  way  of  stor- 
ing up  damp,  and  letting  it  out  when  the  winter 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

fires  began.  The  farmer  was  in  a  position  to 
know — they  had  had  thirty  years  of  it.  The 
property  wasn't  "  quite  clear  "  yet,  he  said,  with 
that  tight-lipped  New  England  dignity  which 
must  tell  the  truth  though  it  hurt  him. 

The  pathos  of  thirty  years  of  mortgage!  And 
to  think  that  we  ask  for  them  at  the  bank  as  an 
investment,  and  are  disgruntled  when  they  are 
paid  off. 

The  farmer  had  a  niece  in  Indiana  who  was 
married  to  a  jeweller,  but  with  his  honest  grey 
eyes  looking  at  me  I  could  not  say  that  I  was 
acquainted  with  them,  although  I  should  have 
enjoyed  doing  so,  that  we  might  both  exclaim, 
"How  small  the  world  is!"  I  could  truthfully 
report  that  the  crops  had  been  excellent,  for  I 
remembered  a  phrase  in  my  mother's  letter  (who 
writes  me  solemnly  of  the  crops  once  a  year)  to 
that  effect.  And  he  said,  rather  wistfully,  that  he 
guessed  they  always  were  good  out  there. 

I  looked  over  his  domain,  the  settled  beauty 
of  the  old  house,  the  taste  of  the  blue-painted 
jars,  the  shimmering  river,  the  stretch  of  the 
Connecticut  Valley,  the  hills  prodding  the  sky- 
line gently,  and  in  all  sincerity  I  thought  him 
better  off  than  in  the  rich,  flat  world  of  the  un- 
imaginative Middle  West.  I  said  this,  and  he 
asked  me  hesitatingly,  as  though  he  ought  by 
-j-109-*- 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

right  to  be  talking  of  pumpkins,  why  so  many 
authors  come  from  these  parts — then. 

So  I  expounded  to  him  my  theory:  it  was  be- 
cause the  country  was  ugly,  and  living  rather 
mean,  that  the  mind  must  create  its  own  beauty 
and  the  soul  must  imagine  what  is  not  there, 
giving  expression  to  its  fancies  by  writing  them 
down  rather  than  by  experiencing  them. 

We  were  quite  caught  up  in  the  clouds  until 
it  came  time  to  shake  hands  and  say  good-bye. 
Shaking  hands  in  America  makes  us  conscious. 
It  is  like  going  to  the  train  to  see  people  off — 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said  after  the  touch 
of  palms.  Only  the  Arabs  do  this  with  enthu- 
siasm, the  adieux  growing  to  a  full  crescendo 
after  the  hand-shaking.  It  is  their  cocktail  of 
good-bye. 

'  There  is  no  doubt  about  it,"  I  said  to 

W ,  when  we  were  on  our  way  once  more, 

"  I  like  these  Vermont  people." 

Before  he  could  reply  our  car  slacked  its  pace 
to  ask  a  pedestrian  if  we  were  "  right  "  for  Wind- 
sor. Yet  we  were  not  answered  immediately,  for 
the  eye  of  the  one  accosted  lighted  upon  a  friend 
passing  in  a  buggy,  and  he  put  us  aside  to 
parley. 

"  Got  a  new  buggy?  " 

'  Yep,"  said  the  occupant  of  the  buggy. 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

"  What  you  done  with  the  old  one? " 

"  Kep '  it." 

"Want  to  trade  it?" 

"  Nope." 

"  Go  on." 

"  Getap." 

Then  we  were  advised  of  the  route  laconically. 

"  Like  'em  stiU? "  asked  W of  me. 

"  Yep,"  I  answered  stoutly. 

At  Windsor  one  must  cross  the  river  for 
Cornish,  thereby  quitting  Vermont  and  entering 
New  Hampshire.  Our  mapped-out  itinerary 
demanded  this,  but  if  we  ever  find  ourselves  with 
leisure  on  our  hands  again,  we  will  devote  it  to 
the  Connecticut  Valley,  from  the  source  of  the 
stream  far  up  on  the  Canadian  line  down  through 
its  three  hundred  sixty  miles  of  sinuous  beauty. 

As  Doctor  Holmes  says,  "  it  loiters  down  like 
a  great  lord,"  which,  at  this  point  of  the  river,  is 
a  most  perfect  simile.  A  historian  goes  further, 
recommending  it  for  "  the  frequency  and  elegance 
of  its  meanders,"  this  praise  being  sustained  by  a 
native  along  the  way,  who  claims  that  it  meanders 
so  utterly  at  one  point  that  a  man  with  a  gun 
can  stand  on  the  river-bank  in  New  Hampshire, 
fire  across  Vermont,  and  lodge  his  ball  in  New 
Hampshire  again.  The  solution  of  this  can  be 
worked  out  only  by  pen  and  pencil,  lacking  the 
-j- lll-i- 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

gun  and  particular  spot  where  the  river  so  twists, 
but  it  is  no  more  perplexing  than  the  antics  of 
the  sun  at  Panama,  which  stubbornly  sets  in  the 
East. 

I  had  been  polishing  up  on  the  history  of  the 
Connecticut  Valley  while  rocking  in  my  com- 
fortable chair  (secured  for  me  by  the  insistent 
drummers)  back  in  Springfield,  and  as  we  went 
on  through  the  beaming  sunlight  I  almost  wished 
that  I  hadn't  read  it.  For  this  gentle  length  of 
road  over  which  we  were  "  elegantly  meander- 
ing "  was  the  trail  of  the  Indians  who  drove  their 
captives  from  the  settlement  in  lower  Vermont, 
New  Hampshire,  Massachusetts,  and  Connecti- 
cut— the  trail  on  which  they  beat  them,  tortured 
them,  abandoned  them  to  die,  selling  into  slavery 
to  the  Frenchmen  of  Canada  such  poor  frag- 
ments as  endured. 

Whole  villages  were  at  times  rounded  up  like 
cattle  and  started  northward.  Each  Indian  was 
allotted  one  or  more  prizes,  and  while  it  was  to 
the  interest  of  the  warrior  to  keep  the  settlers 
alive,  at  the  end  of  every  day's  march  such  cap- 
tives as  gave  evidence  of  flagging  strength  were 
killed.  And  yet  it  was  these  savages,  these  crea- 
tures of  instinctive  poetry,  who  called  the  river 
The  Smile  of  God. 

I   often   reflect,   without   dawn   of   reason   on 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

the  subject,  upon  the  white  man  who  gave  the 
first  gun  to  the  first  Indian.  Who  began  it — 
what  was  the  value  of  the  bundle  of  furs  that 
he  probably  received  in  return?  It  is  well  known 
that  arrows  were  comparatively  ineffectual 
against  guns — it  would  seem  to  be  the  one  method 
of  safeguarding  the  white  settlers — yet  the  ex- 
change of  some  commodity  or  other  for  muskets 
must  have  become  general,  for  even  in  the  wars 
of  1675  many  of  the  red  men  possessed  firearms. 

The  number  of  settlers  killed  during  the  early 
wars  is  so  small  to  us  now,  in  this  age  of  com- 
plete annihilation  of  regiments,  that  I  hesitate 
to  put  it  down.  Yet,  while  the  toll  of  dead  dur- 
ing the  uprising  of  the  Indians  under  the  Mas- 
sasoit,  Philip,  was  but  six  hundred  in  all,  that 
represented  one  man  out  of  every  twenty  living 
in  New  England.  And  the  expense  of  the  war, 
put  down  as  half  a  million  dollars,  all  but  beg- 
gared the  community. 

The  Indians  may  have  come  down  the  river 
in  canoes,  but  one  does  not  read  of  any  such 
comfortable  transportation  up  the  stream  with 
their  prisoners — possibly  for  the  reason  that  it 
was  up  the  stream,  and  there  may  have  been  a 
stern  resistance  in  the  current  of  The  Smile  of 
God. 

Freight    as    mournful    has    rested    upon    the 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

bosom  of  its  waters,  mournful  if  one  can  apply 
that  word  to  effort  unrecognised.  Fourteen  years 
before  Robert  Fulton  paddled  his  boat,  the 
Clermont,  up  the  Hudson,  under  steam,  Samuel 
Morey  set  the  Connecticut  Valley  gaping  by  a 
small  steamer  of  his  own  invention. 

He  had  but  one  paddle-wheel  at  first,  and  his 
speed  was  hardly  that  of  a  motor-boat.  There 
were  some  solemn  conclaves  among  the  capitalists 
of  the  Valley  over  the  advisability  of  financing 
this  young  man  toward  further  endeavour.  And 
it  was  decided  if  he  could  manage  to  attain  a 
maximum  speed  of  eight  miles  an  hour  that  the 
queer  craft  might  have  possibilities  which  would 
be  worth  developing. 

Morey  then  added  a  wheel  to  the  other  side 
of  the  boat,  attained  the  eight  miles,  and  was 
deserted,  for  some  reason  or  other,  by  his  cau- 
tious friends  of  high  finance.  The  history  in 
which  I  found  this  story  went  a  little  further 
than  chroniclers  of  dry  events  generally  do,  and, 
entering  the  realms  of  psychology,  told  the  reader 
that  the  inventor  accepted  his  defeat  with  great 
philosophy,  sunk  his  boat,  and  lived  to  a  genial 
old  age  as  a  market  gardener. 

I  was  grateful  for  this  denouement,  as  it  was 
the  only  optimistic  note  I  could  catch  in  all  the 
sad  story  of  this  peaceful  farming  country.  Yet 
-e-114-*- 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

to  see  the  land  itself,  evolved  from  the  wilderness 
by  a  patience  and  fearlessness  of  which  a  quak- 
ing motorist  has  no  grasp,  is  possibly  the  cheer- 
iest symbol  of  optimism  to  be  found  in  or  out  of 
a  chronicle. 

It  was  something  of  a  grief  to  the  Illustrator, 
who  still  thrills  at  Indian  lore,  that  Windsor, 
which  we  were  rapidly  approaching,  bore  no 
marks  of  tomahawks  on  old  oaken  doors.  In- 
deed, we  have  found  that  the  most  dramatic 
events  of  which  we  read  take  place  just  this  side 
of  the  point  where  we  "  turn  in,"  or  just  beyond 
the  point  where  we  "  turn  out." 

I  tried  to  tell  him  that  we  should  be  glad  we 
were  spared  any  more  definite  visualising  of  the 
cruelties  his  own  forbears  suffered  (he  is  from 
Vermont — and  Virginia — and  other  states),  and 
he  replied  that  he  didn't  want  any  one  to  have 
been  out  and  out  killed  there,  but  scalping  does 
not  necessarily  cause  death.  I  sat  back  sternly. 
It  is  amazing  how  men  refuse  to  grow  up. 

And  yet  they  do!  With  the  sure  instinct  of 
mankind  he  picked  out  some  one  in  the  far  dis- 
tance to  ask  more  of  Windsor,  and  she  was, 
again,  a  very  pretty  girl.  She  said  we  could  go 
to  the  hotel  if  we  wanted  to,  but  she  advised 
the  Windsor  Club — she  was  going  there  herself. 
So  the  Illustrator  thought  that  the  Windsor 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

Club  was  much  the  better  place,  and  we  went 
her  way — where  she  turned  out  to  be  a  waitress, 
but,  undoubtedly,  a  head  waitress. 

The  Club  has  been  erected  by  the  mill-owners 
for  the  men,  and  the  public  have  only  the  privi- 
lege of  the  restaurant  and  the  telephone.  We 
telephoned  to  our  long-suffering  friends  in  Cor- 
nish, who  had  ceased  to  become  friends,  we  dis- 
covered, and  had  gone  off  for  a  day  and  night. 
We  were  sorry  to  lose  them,  but  there  was  a 
sort  of  motor  press  on,  press  ever  gleam  in  our 
eyes,  which  placed  friends  as  something  better 
than  a  dog,  but  not  as  dear  as  a  good  day's  run. 

Since  our  destination  was  Rutland,  we  could 
have  motored  on  up  the  Valley  on  the  Vermont 
side,  or  could,  after  crossing  the  river,  have  clung  to 
the  river-bank  and  continue  over  the  excellent 
Lebanon  Turnpike,  recrossing  the  river  at  West 
Lebanon. 

But  it  is  foolish  to  be  so  near  Cornish  and 
not  become  part  of  it  for  a  moment,  no  matter 
how  indifferent  the  Cornishmen  may  be  about 
having  you  there.  There  is  something  rustic  in 
the  name  Cornishmen,  but  there  is  nothing  rustic 
about  them  in  reality,  with  the  exception  of  their 
gardens — and  those  are  as  beautifully  cultivated 
as  the  minds  which  own  them. 

One  does  not  think,  as  a  rule,  of  minds  owning 
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A    (JAHDKN    AT    COHMSH 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

beautiful  stretches  of  property,  and  houses  con- 
taining chairs,  bolsters,  flat  silver,  Oriental  rugs, 
vacuum-cleaners,  a  phonograph  (behind  a  Japa- 
nese screen),  and  other  essentials  to  living.  We 
see  fat  people  owning  such  comfortable  resting- 
places.  But  Cornish  contains  a  summer  colony, 
noted  for  minds,  and  for  the  best  ones,  which 
means  that  they  are  not  dull,  ponderous  masses 
of  grey  matter  which  confound  you  with  facts, 
and  fill  you  with  a  panicky  feeling  that  you  will 
not  understand  what  they  are  going  to  say  next. 

One  of  the  rewards  of  increasing  years  is  an 
experience  in  proportion,  and  I  have  found,  with 
relief,  that  the  really  great  brain  is  not  wrapped 
in  a  garment  of  perplexity,  but  is  as  simple  and 
understandable  as  a  nude  figure. 

The  quality  of  a  retiring  mind  is  charming 
unless  you  are  a  motorist  trying  to  see  the  great 
estates  in  Cornish,  then  you  become  exasperated, 
as  the  gardens  for  which  the  locality  is  famous 
are  so  retired  from  the  road  that  one  gets  nothing 
but  R.  F.  D.  boxes,  with  magical  names  on  the 
outside  to  show  that  any  one  lives  beyond  the 
iron  gates  but  Mother  Nature. 

We  wished  that  all  of  the  houses  could  be  inns, 
for  an  inn  may  be  as  modest  as  a  daisy,  but,  like 
a  daisy,  it  is  indigenous  to  the  roadside  and  in 
plain  view.  We  had  no  sooner  crossed  the  river 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

than  we  came  upon  one  little  white  tea-house,  with 
blinds  the  colour  of  fresh  green  lettuce,  and  a 
swinging  sign  painted,  we  knew  immediately,  by 
Maxfield  Parrish. 

A  few  yards  further  on,  overlooking  the  river, 
is  another  where  one  may  dine  as  well  as  tea,  and 
the  traveller  would  do  well  to  take  a  meal  there. 
He  may  argue  that  he  is  not  hungry,  and  I  can 
only  reply  that  he  will  be  so  by  the  time  he 
reaches  the  hotel  at  White  River  Junction. 
Whereas  if  you  are  not  hungry  when  you  arrive 
at  the  Junction  you  need  not  stop  at  that  un- 
romantic  spot,  but  can  motor  on  to  Woodstock, 
and  replete  with  food,  remain  sensible  to  the 
beauties  of  nature.  It  is  difficult  to  lay  too  great 
value  on  a  well-filled  stomach  when  one  is  out 
to  admire  scenery. 

We  still  had  a  friend — or  two — left  in  Cornish, 
in  spite  of  those  leaving  hastily  whom  we  were 
about  to  visit.  And  we  asked  the  way  of  a  de- 
lightful miss,  on  the  edge  of  long  skirts,  who 
was  sitting  on  one  of  the  few  porches  exposed  to 
the  naked  eye  of  the  passing  visitor. 

She  was  bursting  with  knowledge,  for  she  had 
often  visited  our  acquaintances,  she  said,  but 
nothing  could  have  wriggled  more  in  the  impart- 
ing of  the  directions  unless  it  was  the  dachshund 
squirming  in  her  arms. 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

"  You  go,"  she  said,  "  yes — you  go  at  least  two 
miles — pretty  straight — and  then  you  come  to  a 
church" — she  hesitated— "  or  do  you?  That's 
just  it."  Her  agony  of  mind  was  terrible  to  wit- 
ness. "  And  then,  supposing  you  do  come  to  the 
church,  you  turn  to  the  right.  Yes,  you  do,  but 
oh,  horrors ! "  she  pressed  the  dachshund  to  her 
brow.  "  Is  it  before  the  graveyard  or  after  it? " 

As  the  result  of  this  complete  revelation  we 
thought  it  safer  to  inquire  further  at  the  post- 
office,  and  found  it  was  after  the  cemetery,  which 

was  satisfactory  in  a  way,  proving,  as  W 

said,  that  these  friends  would  remain  friends  even 
beyond  the  grave.  Yet  the  government  official 
(also  a  dispenser  of  garden  seed,  underwear,  and 
photographs  of  President  Wilson's  summer  resi- 
dence) was  not  entirely  right,  and  it  would 
seem  that  it  is  as  difficult  to  define  a  country 
residence  as  to  tell  the  truth  in  a  witness  chair. 

But  we  found  it,  first  climbing  a  little  hill  to 
the  second  house  and,  being  wrong,  descending 
it  again  to  the  third  house,  where  we  were  im- 
mediately encircled  by  a  garden,  puppies,  sleek 
cats,  and  our  friends.  The  scene  was  so  lovely 
that,  for  an  instant,  we  wondered  why  our  par- 
ticular inclination  has  kept  us  always  in  a  sort 
of  perpetual  motion,  instead  of  settling  down  with 
one  vista  for  contemplation  instead  of  a  ceaseless 
-1-119-*- 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

demand  for  a  continual  unfolding  of  new  land- 
scapes. 

The  regret  for  our  unsettled  condition  was  only 
for  the  instant,  however.  Soon  we  were  in  the 
car  again,  philosophising  that  we  wouldn't  be 
moving  about  in  this  fashion  if  it  was  not  best 
suited  to  our  dispositions,  and  rather  blaming  it 
on  the  Lord.  I  don't  know  how  some  of  us 
could  quiet  our  conscience  if  we  did  not  reflect 
that  the  Lord  made  us. 

Through  lovely  country  lanes  we  twisted  our- 
selves in  and  out  of  various  towns,  all  called 
Lebanon,  and,  crossing  a  bridge  again,  were  re- 
luctantly at  White  River  Junction.  I  defy  any 
one  to  name  a  charming  town,  or  a  moderately 
pretty  one,  or  even  a  stylish  village,  that  staggers 
under  the  appellation  of  Junction.  It  is  as  cruel 
as  naming  a  girl  Eliza  or  a  baby  boy  Methuselah. 
The  town  could  as  well  have  been  one  of  the 
Lebanons — West — West  Lebanon  possibly,  for, 
while  locomotives  were  busy  running  up  and 
down  in  front  of  the  hotel — after  the  manner  of 
junctions — the  name  is  not  the  result  of  the  meet- 
ing of  railroads,  but  of  the  engulfing  of  White 
River  by  the  waters  of  the  Connecticut. 

Although  we  were  hungry,  and  White  River 
Junction   ugly,    and    the    locomotives    noisy,    we 
found  occasion  to  liken  humanity  to  this  merging 
-z-120-*- 


of  one  defined  river  into  another.  How  the  weak 
feed  the  strong!  How  unconscious  the  strong  are 
that  they,  in  their  greed,  have  sapped  up  for 
their  expansion  all  the  little  thoughts  and  the 
individual  efforts  of  such  mortals  who,  by  their 
situation  and  equipment,  can  be  but  tributaries 
in  the  scheme  of  life.  And,  even  so,  how  right  it 
all  is!  The  great  stream  serves  great  purposes — 
but  it  is  a  sustaining  thought  that  it  could  not  do 
without  the  little  tributaries. 

There  were  several  parties  of  motorists  in  the 
hotel  dining-room,  and  out  of  each  party  was 
one  fat  woman.  I  have  never  failed  to  observe 
this,  although  it  is  still  an  open  question  as  to 
whether  one  acquires  flesh  from  motoring  or  that 
one  motors  who  has  acquired  flesh.  It  is  an  un- 
easy question  and  has  a  tendency  to  the  curtail- 
ing of  soup  while  touring,  and  by  a  hurried  exit 
resisting  the  seductive  New  England  pie. 

It  was  our  waitress  at  luncheon  who  urged  the 
pie  upon  us.  She  said  it  was  "  all  right  "  —and 
it  was.  I  had  not  lifted  my  eyes  to  her  face  until 
we  had  reached  the  sweets.  Her  body  was  so 
trim  that  I  thought  her  young,  but  her  face  was 
of  an  alarming  plainness,  and  she  went  about  her 
work  with  a  sad  elimination  of  bantering,  as 
though  such  things  were  not  for  her. 

I  thought  of  the  unlovely  way  that  the  truth 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

about  herself  must  have  been  thrust  upon  her 
when  she  was  a  young  waitress,  with  an  inclina- 
tion to  doubt  her  mirror  and  a  secret  hope  that 
some  one  of  the  commercial  travellers  would  find 
her  worthy  of  his  light  admiration.  But  that 
was  long  ago,  and  now  with  an  appreciation  of 
her  limitations  she  wisely  chose  the  air  of  an 
ascetic. 

Even  at  her  age  she  could  not  escape  the  ma- 
terial sizing  up  of  one  gross  guest  at  table.  His 
eye,  like  mine,  had  first  embraced  her  delicate 
waist,  but  as  he  worked  up  to  her  homely  features 
he  winked  openly  at  his  companion  and  gave  a 
loud  guffaw.  She  was  impervious  to  his  humour, 
however,  and  brought  him  everything  for  which 
he  had  asked — and  this  was  Christian  charity  to 
the  limit. 

We  turned  sharply  at  our  right  upon  leaving 
White  River  (I  cannot  say  Junction  again) 
along  the  valley  road  of  the — a  halt  to  verify  the 
spelling — Ottaquechee. 

Two  late  haymakers,  or,  rather,  two  makers  of 
late  hay,  told  us  the  name  of  the  river.  Strangely 
enough  for  those  who  live  in  the  valley,  they 
stumbled  in  the  telling,  and,  while  I  am  no 
farmer,  they  presented  an  equal  incapacity  for 
haymaking.  Since  their  wagons  were  pictur- 
esque, I  asked  if  they  would  allow  me  to  photo- 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

graph  them.  This  is  not  an  unusual  request  in 
the  country,  and  in  any  clime  the  mention  of  a 
photograph  is  a  sign  for  a  quick  acquiescence,  and 
a  certain  setting  to  rights  of  one's  clothing. 

But  these  incapable  haymakers  continued 
amazing  by  a  burst  of  laughter  and  an  acceptance 
of  our  offer  without  the  hitching  of  a  suspender. 
It  was  trying  to  my  vanity,  but  I  followed  the 
usual  formula,  and  upon  the  clicking  of  the 
camera  offered  to  send  them  prints  if  they  would 
give  me  their  names.  And  at  this  there  was  an 
ill-concealed  attempt  to  muzzle  more  laughter, 
consequent  with  a  removing  of  old  straw  hats 
to  beg  my  pardon,  for,  they  told  us,  they  were 
moving-picture  actors  rehearsing  a  scene,  and 
they  averaged  about  ten  thousand  pictures  of 
themselves  a  day.  The  Illustrator  rummaged 
for  his  flask,  and  we  chatted  a  little  until  a  large 
motor  came  up  with  their  camera  man  and  di- 
rector. 

On  the  outside  was  painted  the  name  of  the 
concern  in  vulgar  lettering.  There  were  other 
actors  in  the  automobile  going  to  their  various 
"  locations,"  and  they  were  so  sober  and  indus- 
trious about  their  "  job "  that  we  thought  it  a 
pity  they  must  be  labelled  like  zanies  in  a  circus. 
One  might  as  well  paint  "  Attorney  "  across  the 
car  of  a  gentleman  of  that  profession,  or  "  Spe- 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

cialist  in  Ears,"  or  "  Minister  of  the  First  Bap- 
tist Church."  Surely  the  actor  is  the  servant  of 
the  public! 

But  on  we  went  to  Woodstock,  with  our  dis- 
approval unexpressed  and  futile  save  that  no 
mental  disapprobation  is  without  action  of  some 
sort,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  mentally  and 
vocally  disapproving  of  each  other  in  the  sketch- 
ing of  an  old  doorway,  which  I  thought  an  ex- 
cellent bit,  and  the  Illustrator  said  was  a  "  bust." 
If  it  is  presented  here  I  leave  it  to  the  public  to 
judge  of  my  taste. 

Besides  a  doorway  I  acquired  some  hairpins  in 
Woodstock  and  a  new  valve  for  my  hot-water 
bottle.  One  need  not  feel  the  necessity  of  carry- 
ing from  her  native  city  every  essential,  as  though 
bound  for  desert  places.  Shopping  in  small 
towns  is  pleasantly  simple,  and  the  choice,  being 
restricted,  is  quickly  accomplished.  We  also 
found  ourselves  drifting  into  a  carelessness  as  to 
our  personal  appearance  that  gives  us  many  ex- 
tra half  hours  in  the  open,  far  from  mirrors 
save  those  that  Nature  provides  in  the  stilly 
pools. 

I  would  never  have  believed  that  the  correctly 
veiled  person  who  quitted  my  apartment  four 
days  before  could  be  the  same  who,  with  hat  on 
one  ear,  and  an  unbecoming  hat  at  that,  listened 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

shamelessly  to  the  conversation  of  others  in  the 
delightful  inn  at  Woodstock. 

Listening  to  conversations  may  be  as  base  as 
peeping  through  windows,  but  it  is  endlessly 
amusing.  The  Illustrator  is  immediately  sur- 
rounded by  other  motor  enthusiasts  who  talk 
roads,  but  my  sex  are  not  so  friendly. 

"  She  looks  like  a  nice  woman,"  one  said  faint- 
heartedly of  an  absent  creature  who  was  laid 
upon  the  dissecting  tea-table. 

"  Her  first  name  is  Cora,  isn't  it? "  inquired 
Cora's  accuser  severely.  "  I  never  trusted  that 
name." 

And  that  took  me  back  to  White  River  Junc- 
tion again.  Shakespeare  is  wrong.  There's  a  lot  in 
a  name,  and  mothers  should  be  more  careful  when 
they  thrust  the  nominal  sign  of  the  adventuress 
upon  a  red,  squirming  infant.  I  suppose  it  is  diffi- 
cult for  a  mother  to  imagine  a  red,  squirming  in- 
fant an  adventuress  at  all. 

After  Woodstock  we  began  a  steady  ascent  to- 
ward the  Green  Mountains,  again  over  a  road 
much  better  than  the  Peru  Turnpike — and  which 
cost  us  nothing  at  all.  The  stretches  of  farmland 
were  rich  and  ever  richer.  The  lush  grass  grew 
smoothly  to  the  edges  of  the  streams,  and  the 
hills,  bounding  the  valley,  resembled  a  little  the 
lower  stretches  of  the  Alps.  Yet  only  a  little 
-j-125-t- 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

little,  for  each  country  enjoys  a  topography 
peculiarly  its  own,  and  America  is,  to  me,  more 
individual  than  any  other. 

Strange,  is  it  not?  Trees  with  leaves,  cows  with 
horns,  dogs  with  four  legs,  men  and  women  with 
two — strange  that  we  should  be  so  dissimilar! 
I  confided  some  of  these  musings  to  the  front 
seat.  I  told  the  chauffeur,  for  his  own  enlighten- 
ment, that  his  country  could  not  possibly  look 
like  any  other  country.  He  replied  that  he  didn't 
want  it  to,  but  he  hoped,  when  he  visited  other 
countries,  that  he  would  find  them  all  look- 
ing like  his.  And  as  this  was  ridiculous,  I 
sat  back  without  any  further  promulgation  of 
thought. 

W-  -  was  willing  to  continue  the  discussion 
for  the  hidden  reason  that,  busied  with  conten- 
tion, I  would  not  observe  the  life  of  the  road  and 
call  a  halt  for  a  further  investigation  of  events 
along  the  way.  He  had  secret  hopes  of  arriving, 
for  once,  at  the  end  of  our  day's  run  before 
nightfall. 

But  his  methods  were  too  vigorous.  At  one 
lonely  spot  he  began  to  question  me  so  eagerly 
as  to  my  opinions — opinions  in  which  he  had 
never  taken  any  interest  before — that  I  peered 
suspiciously  over  his  broad  blocking  shoulders 
just  in  time  to  espy  a  very  quaint  little  sign  set 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

stiffly  on  a  post  in  front  of  a  very  shabby  little 
house,  which  he  was  trying  to  rush  me  past. 

The  sign  was  gleaming  with  fresh  paint,  ap- 
plied colourfully,  but  untruthfully,  to  a  row  of 
animals,  with  the  announcement  beneath  that 
Home-made  Toys  were  for  sale.  Knowing  that 
he  was  worsted  he  backed  back,  and  we  were 
shortly  afterwards  on  the  shabby  porch,  sur- 
rounded by  carved  dogs,  horses,  dolls'  houses, 
dolls'  chairs,  cows,  and  what  I  think  were  bears. 

The  maker  was  a  man  of  huge  stature,  but  so 
crippled  by  rheumatism  that  he  could  no  longer 
work  at  his  trade  of  carpentry  beyond  carving 
out  his  small  wares  through  the  winter  and  sell- 
ing them  to  those  motoring  past  in  the  summer. 
I  found  our  young  chauffeur  looking  at  him 
with  a  sort  of  sympathetic  contempt,  but  it  was 

as  remarkable  as  it  was  touching  to  W and 

myself  that  this  great  creature,  this  maker  of 
homes,  was  now  producing  tailless  dogs  and 
tailful  horses  with  the  enthusiasm  if  not  the  skill 
of  an  artist. 

"  The  point  is,"  he  said,  "  it's  my  job.  He's 
a  poor  man  who  won't  like  the  thing  he  can  do, 
and  I've  grown  to  like  them.  It's  kind  of  vain, 
I  guess,  but  I  take  a  sort  of  father's  pride  in 
them.  Oh,  yes,  madam,  people  are  very  kind. 
The  only  time  my  feelings  get  hurt  at  all  is  the 
-j-127-1- 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

way  some  of  the  visitors  can't  tell  the  dogs  from 
the  horses." 

I  hastily  put  down  one — or  other — of  these 
quadrupeds,  for  I  was  a  little  uncertain  beyond 
its  being  of  the  animal  kingdom,  and  I  bought, 
after  that,  creatures  with  horns,  unquestionably 
cows. 

I  also  took  a  little  chair  with  a  Greek  cross 
cut  out  on  the  back.  "  I  like  to  see  a  cross  on  a 
chair,"  he  said,  handling  the  toy  delicately.  "  It 
seems  to  be  resting  there — kinda,  somehow." 

'  You  carry  your  cross,"  W responded. 

"  Always,  sir,"  with  a  hand  to  his  twisted  spine. 

We  talked  of  rheumatism  and  he  told  us  of  the 
man  from  Bridgeport  who  had  passed  that  day 
and,  before  whirling  on,  advised  the  invalid  to 
take  a  cure  in  Russia. 

"  But  I  couldn't  get  along  without  the  auto- 
mobilists,"  he  added  gratefully.  "  Once  I  thought 
I  couldn't  stand  the  pain,  now  I  know  I  can." 

I  told  him  of  one  Marcus  Aurelius  who  says: 
'  The  pain  which  is  intolerable  carries  us  off, 
but  that  which  lasts  a  long  time  is  tolerable,  and 
the  mind  maintains  its  own  tranquillity  by  retir- 
ing into  itself,  and  the  ruling  faculty  is  not  made 
worse." 

It  did  not  seem  unusual  to  be  quoting  the  Ro- 
man Emperor  to  this  bent  giant  of  Vermont,  nor 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

astonishing  that  he  accepted  the  philosophy  with 
understanding.  The  man  from  Bridgeport  might 
be  out  of  place  in  the  Green  Mountains,  but  the 
Ancients  are  perfectly  fitted  to  any  habitation 
where  dwells  the  simple  spirit. 

We  put  our  names  in  a  little  book  before  we 
left.  He  showed  with  the  greatest  pride  the  sig- 
nature of  one  who  had  been  the  First  Lady  of 
the  Land.  He  knew  the  weeks  and  the  days 
that  had  passed  since  her  death.  In  the  outer 
world  the  transition  of  her  soul  had  come  at  a 
time  when  grief  from  appalling  havoc  made  small 
by  comparison  any  less  international  sorrow.  But 
here  in  this  quiet  countryside  we  felt  that  we  had 
stumbled  upon  an  altar  to  her  memory,  covered 
over  with  fresh  flowers. 

As  a  result  of  the  protracted  call  upon  Mr. 
Bailey,  we,  as  usual,  reached  our  night's  resting- 
place  as  the  electric  lights  were  changing  the 
dusk  into  an  admitted  blackness.  The  authorities 
of  Rutland  point  the  way  intelligently  by  signs 
arrowing  (I  have  coined  this)  the  business  por- 
tion of  the  town  and  that  of  the  residences.  I 
had  hoped  the  hotel  would  be  on  a  hill,  or  a 
meadow,  or  even  a  park,  for  we  were  permeated 
with  a  sense  of  the  country,  and  were  impatient 
at  the  prospect  of  the  lights  of  the  moving-pic- 
ture houses  shining  in  upon  such  respectable 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

early-going-to-bed  tourists  as  we  had  become. 
But  it  was  squarely  in  the  centre  of  all  the  lights 
in  Rutland.  A  commercial  hotel  with  a  stern 
disinclination  to  hearken  to  the  appeal  of  the 
drummer  for  its  self-improvement. 

A  disinclination,  indeed,  to  hearken  to  anything 
save  the  honk  of  the  motor  horn,  and  to  boost  up 
the  prices  with  the  ascending  of  the  motor  trunk. 
It  is  not  that  they  charge  so  much,  but  that  they 
charge  too  much.  Too  much  in  proportion  to  the 
comforts  to  be  secured  for  the  same  sum  at  other 
hotels  along  the  way,  which  are  also  recommended 
by  the  emblematic  shield  of  a  certain  Association. 

I  have  long  known  that  a  shield  signifies  pro- 
tection, and  as  we  went  through  the  country 
largely  influenced  as  to  our  choice  of  stopping- 
places  by  this  emblem,  I  had  cherished  the  idea 
that  the  armour  was  to  protect  the  guests.  But, 
arriving  at  Rutland,  I  learned  that  it  is  the 
hostelry  which  hides  behind  the  shield. 

Rebellion  was  not  enduring.  If  we  had 
stopped  anywhere  else  in  the  world  I  would  never 
know  how,  in  Rutland,  a  man  can  care  for  a 
woman.  I  knew  it  would  be  a  confidence  by  the 
way  he  glared  at  me  when  I  chanced  to  stray 
into  the  parlour.  I  knew  she  was  expecting  a 
confidence  by  that  glad  questioning  in  her  eyes 
and  her  utter  indifference  to  me.  I  knew,  too, 
•n-130-e- 


CONCERNING  VERMONTERS  AND  THEIR  WAYS 

that  she  cared  a  lot  more  for  him  than  he  did 
for  her.  I  could  have  told  her  so  in  advance, 
but  we  must  learn  by  our  own  experience. 

"  I've  got  a  new  horse,"  he  told  her. 

"  Do  you  drive  it  to  your  buggy? " 

"  You  bet  I  do,"  he  answered. 

She  beamed  upon  him. 

"  Will  you  be  at  home  to-morrow  at  four? "  he 
asked. 

She  said  she  would. 

"  You  be  on  the  porch." 

She  said  she  would. 

"  I'll  drive  past  and  you  can  see  it,"  said  the 
swain. 

If  I  had  not  left  the  parlour  there  would  have 
been  a  dead  Rutlander. 


131 


CHAPTER  VII 

Scenery  Everywhere,  Especially  "  With 
the  Top  Down" 

WE  left  Rutland  late  the  next  morning,  for  the 
reason  that  the  chauffeur  was  not  to  be  found. 
As  a  rule  the  earliest  bird  at  the  garage,  he  was 

not  there  when  W went  over  finally  to  see 

what  was  wrong. 

Nor  could  he  be  located  by  telephoning  to  the 
various  small  hotels  patronised  by  chauffeurs.  I 
was  sitting  in  the  lobby,  surrounded  by  bags, 

when  W returned  expressing  the  conviction 

loudly  that  the  boy  had  been  "  done  away  with." 
It  was  very  absurd  for  one  who  had  been  born 
in  New  York  to  go  to  Rutland,  Vermont,  for  the 
drinking  of  knock-out  drops,  and  I  said  this  by 
way  of  calming  the  Illustrator. 

While  it  did  not  calm  him  it  did  inspire  him, 
and  he  went  on  to  develop  a  theory  that  this 
disappearance  of  our  young  man  was  probably 
the  result  of  an  extraordinary  justice.  Think,  he 
continued,  of  all  those  from  the  country  who 
have,  from  time  to  time  in  New  York  City,  drunk 
of  the  cup  of  oblivion  in  a  rear  saloon,  and  been 
relieved  of  their  small  roll. 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

For  all  we  know  there  is  now  a  secret  society 
among  the  Green  Mountain  Boys — who  have  had 
small  opportunity  to  right  wrongs  of  late — a 
society  whose  members  carry  small  vials  contain- 
ing sleeping  potions.  And  these  they  pour  into 
the  coffee  cups  of  visiting  chauffeurs  as  they  sit 
on  the  stools  of  the  Owl  Lunch  Wagon. 

The  Illustrator  had  a  little  difficulty  in  continu- 
ing with  his  theory  after  this,  as  he  did  not  know 
how  the  Green  Mountain  Boys  could  get  their  vic- 
tims out  of  the  Owl  Lunch  Wagon.  There  is  no 
more  respectable  place  in  the  world  than  a  night 
lunch,  especially  if  it  is  called  the  White  House. 
Besides,  the  genial  proprietor,  making  egg  and 
onion  sandwiches  in  a  very  compressed  space, 
could  not  allow  them  to  sleep  away  on  the  few 
stools,  as  it  would  spoil  trade.  Yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  would  attract  attention  if  the  city  men 
were  dragged  out  and  robbed  under  the  wheels 
of  the  wagon. 

We  grew  very  uneasy  over  the  situation,  bell- 
boys were  beginning  to  gather  about  us,  and  I 
don't  know  how  we  would  have  worked  the  thing 
out  had  not,  at  that  moment,  a  perfectly  new 
White  House  passed  along  the  street  with  a 
number  of  children  sitting  up  in  front,  going  into 
the  country  for  a  Sunday's  airing. 

In  swift  sweeps  of  the  mind  we  then  decided 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

that  the  Green  Mountain  Boys  controlled  one  or 
more  of  these  wagons,  and  that  it  was  their  custom 
to  daze  the  New  York  chauffeurs  as  they  drank 
their  coffee,  then  hastily  drive  out  of  the  town, 
deposit  them  on  the  ground  (generously  leaving 
a  nickel  in  their  pockets  for  carfare) ,  and  return 
to  the  village  for  more  strangers  to  the  great 
country. 

"  And  it  is  particularly  fitting  that  Rutland 
should  be  the  first  to  establish  this  sure  justice," 

completed  W ,  "  as  the  Howe  scales  are  made 

here.  Did  you  ever  see  a  statue  of  Justice  without 
a  pair  of  Howe  scales  in  her  hand? " 

This  appeared  to  settle  the  matter,  and  we 
were  so  enjoying  our  extravaganza  that  it  was  a 
little  disappointing  to  us  when  our  car  bounced 
before  the  door,  and  the  driver,  knocked  out  by 
nothing  but  the  sleep  of  beautiful  youth,  began 
to  cry  hurried  apologies. 

It  is  but  fair  to  Rutland  County  that  it  has 
overcome  its  ominous  name  by  good  roads,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  this  part  of  the  state  has 
been  largely  quarried.  I  recall  the  fearful  con- 
dition of  the  roads  in  Italy  near  the  great  Carrara 
marbles,  cut  by  heavy  hauling  and  liberally  be- 
sprinkled with  samples  of  their  specialite  du  pays. 
Possibly  the  American  is  too  thrifty  to  scatter 
about  pieces  of  marble  large  enough  for  grave- 
-J-134-*- 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

stones  of — at  least — inconspicuous  mortals.  Since 
the  quarries  of  Vermont  are  marble,  I  asked  a 
clerk  in  a  beautiful  inn  at  Brandon  why  it  was 
called  the  Granite  State,  and  he  replied  that  he 
did  not  know  it  was. 

This  so  confused  me,  fearing  I  was  wrong,  that 
I  backed  away  and  confined  my  observations  to 
visual,  not  mental,  efforts.  There  was  a  series  of 
excellent  prints  on  the  wall,  pictures  of  gentle- 
men with  side  whiskers  and  silk  hats  racing  one 
another  in  quaint  sleighs,  while  Central  Park  was 
fully  expressed  by  ladies  in  hoop-skirts  whizzing 
along  in  cabriolets. 

I  looked  at  them  rather  wistfully,  for  there  was 
a  great  deal  of  action  in  the  pictures,  whereas 
Brandon,  although  decorously  beautiful,  was 
choked  into  insensibility  by  the  Sabbath  calm. 

The  man  who  must  spend  a  Sunday  in  New 
England  is  fortunate  to  be  motoring  in  and  out 
of  the  villages.  In  the  country  there  is  the  con- 
tinual assurance  that  life  is  going  on,  whereas 
there  is  no  such  optimistic  note  in  a  village. 
And,  mark  you,  it  is  the  houses  that  are  to  blame. 
Not  even  people  are  as  deeply  affected  by  a  strict 
closing  as  are  habitations.  They  are  in  natural 
opposition  to  nature  anyway,  for  they  have  no 
individual  power  to  expand  into  more  rooms,  or 
a  new  porch  even,  while  a  mustard  seed  goes  on 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

expressing  itself  as  extensively  as  it  wishes — 
and  with  no  regard  for  Sundays. 

I  admit  that  the  residents  of  houses  are  fre- 
quently affected  by  the  stiff  manner  their  envel- 
oping walls  acquire  on  Sunday.  But  to  justify 
my  contention  I  beg  the  automobilist  to  watch 
the  houses  of  the  small  town  on  Sunday,  and  on 
Monday.  Then,  even  if  it  be  wash-day,  he  will 
observe  a  certain  winking  joyousness  about  the 
windows  which  was  not  manifest  twenty-four 
hours  before. 

Such  inhabitants  as  we  met  upon  the  street 
were  all  going  to  or  from  church,  glad  to  be  out 
of  their  stiff  homes  with  such  narrow  views. 
Even  through  the  country  they  were  walking 
along  the  paths,  and,  apart  from  the  ethical  ad- 
vantage of  church-going,  I  was  impressed  anew 
with  the  great  social  opportunity  that  worship 
offers  to  the  isolated.  Men  in  this  district  once 
carried  their  guns  on  their  shoulders  when  they 
escorted  their  females  to  and  from  the  service. 
And  I  wonder  if  it  was  not  the  pleasant  mixing 
of  humanity,  as  well  as  the  God-fearing  impulse, 
which  brought  them  to  court  an  Indian  attack  by 
their  weekly  assembling. 

To  the  traveller  of  the  road  a  church  gen- 
erally stands  as  a  landmark,  past  which  you  go 
or  don't  go.  In  Brandon  we  were  to  go  past  it, 
-j-136-e- 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

and  would  have  done  so  without  difficulty  but 
we  were  detained  by  the  falling  of  a  trolley  wire 
upon  the  top  of  our  car.  It  was  the  only  live 
thing  in  Brandon,  yet  had  we  not  been  travelling 
with  the  top  up  we  might  have  been  less  alive 
now  than  we  were  then. 

The  top  subject  is  not  extraneous  matter.  It 
is,  strangely  enough,  considering  its  position  on 
the  car,  the  base  of  many  an  unsuccessful  motor- 
ing day.  I  like  the  top  lifted  and  W does 

not.  He  says  one  cannot  "  see  up,"  that  it  is 
not  going  to  rain,  but  if  it  does  the  canopy  can 
be  raised  in  less  than  a  minute. 

This  is  not  the  truth  and  he  knows  it.  It  takes 
longer  than  a  minute;  indeed,  in  our  particular 
internecine  strife  it  covers  an  indefinite  period. 
If,  by  chance,  we  should  start  off  on  a  cloudy 

day  with  W as  conqueror  (that  is,  with  the 

canopy  folded  up)  and  the  rain,  in  spite  of  him, 
should  begin  to  fall,  he  does  not  see  it  or  feel  it. 

It  does  not  seem  to  rain  on  the  front  seat  and 
he  is  surprised  when  I  call  attention  to  the  fact 
that  I  am  getting  wet.  He  is  very  cheerful 
over  my  damp  condition.  He  says  he  thinks 
the  storm  is  passing,  anyway  that  we  are  passing, 
and  will  soon  be  "  out  of  it."  He  says,  too,  that 
the  wind  will  dry  me  off  in  no  time. 

As  we  go  on  and  the  downpour  continues,  he 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

sometimes  shakes  the  raindrops  off  his  lashes 
surreptitiously,  and  asks  me  if  I  want  the  top  up. 
And  when  I  answer,  frozenly,  that  I  do,  he  won- 
ders if  I  would  mind  taking  from  the  receptacle 
formed  by  the  folds  of  canvas  the  laundry  bag, 
his  golf  shoes,  a  bottle  of  whiskey,  one  of  hair 
tonic,  and  some  old  shirts  to  be  used  for  waste 
while  he  and  the  chauffeur  make  ready  to  lift  the 
thing. 

This  frequently  weakens  me  in  my  resolve,  but 
if  I  hold  out  and  the  top  is  put  up,  as  sure  as 
my  cause  is  just  and  life  is  an  enigma,  the  sun 
will  come  out,  and  the  scenery  be  limited  to 

mountain  peaks  overhanging  the  road.  W 

will  then  sigh  deeply.  "  It  must  be  very  pretty 
along  here,"  he  says. 

However,  you  have  all  had  that  experience  and 
wonderfully  enough  gone  on  speaking  to  each 
other,  so  I  need  spend  no  more  time  on  the 
subject,  and  did  not  in  this  present  instance  in 
Brandon,  beyond  asking  the  Illustrator  three 
times  if  he  was  not  glad  the  top  was  up,  and  our 
lives  saved. 

On  we  went,  wireless,  stopping  as  little  as 
possible,  yet  continually,  like  an  accommodation 
train  that  has  acquired  the  habit.  Beyond  Pitts- 
ford  was  a  roadside  monument  to  Caleb  Hough- 
ton,  who  was  killed  by  the  Indians — not  at  this 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

point,  but  half  a  mile  away,  for  the  monument 
served  the  double  purpose  of  commemorating  his 
death  and  the  site  of  Fort  Vengeance. 

Fort  Vengeance!  Not  a  lovely  name  for  the 
conciliation  of  two  races,  and  in  this  land  now 
oozing  peace  and  plenty  a  name  seemingly  re- 
mote. In  spite  of  historical  records  and  such 
wayside  tablets,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  New 
England  as  ever  the  home  of  the  red  men.  The 
wide  plains  of  the  far  West  lend  themselves  more 
perfectly  to  savagery.  There  is  a  sense  of 
breadth  and  space  in  the  topography  which  one 
can  associate  with  the  uncontrolled  spirit.  And 
I  am  inclined  to  believe  that,  in  time,  the  Indians 
of  this  locality  would  have  become  civilised  by 
the  limitations  of  their  environment  if  continual 
warfare  had  not  exterminated  them. 

This  may  be  only  foolish  conjecture.  One  his- 
torian so  disagrees  with  me  as  to  state  that  "  war 
is  the  delight  of  the  savage.  It  furnishes  an  ex- 
citement necessary  to  his  happiness."  While  this 
is  opposed  to  my  theory,  I  would  like  to  agree 
with  the  chronicler.  We  all  have  something  of 
the  savage  within  us,  and  in  these  distressful 
times  it  is  a  relief  to  believe  that  the  warfare 
of  to-day  may  be  in  the  nature  of  a  joy  to  the 
man  in  the  trenches. 

We  were  now  heading  for  Lake  Champlain. 
-j-139-*- 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

The  tall  peaks  of  the  Green  Mountains  which 
enclose  Rutland  still  watching  over  us,  while,  as 
we  slipped  over  the  curve  of  the  earth,  in  the  far 
West  we  espied  the  faint  outlines  of  the  Adiron- 
dacks.  Between  the  two  ranges  lies  the  long 
lake,  and  at  its  southernmost  tip  is  old  Ticon- 
deroga,  a  fort  on  the  alert  for  three  centuries  and 
now,  alas!  sleeping  lazily  through  the  Sabbath 
day. 

It  is  dangerous  to  have  this  generally  known, 
for  any  one  of  the  enemy — Indian,  French,  Amer- 
ican, or  Briton,  to  name  the  besiegers  in  their 
turn — could  seize  the  fort,  single-handed,  as  it 
snoozes  through  a  Sunday. 

We  did  not  learn  this  until  we  had  turned 
south  at  Sudbury  and  descended  at  Hyde  Manor 
for  luncheon.  It  was  Mr.  Hyde  who  told  us. 
From  father  to  son  for  over  a  century  this  fine 
old  house  has  been  open  to  guests.  It  is  far 
enough  from  the  centre  of  things  now  to  satisfy 
a  Thoreau  or  John  Burroughs,  but  once  it  was 
the  main  posting  inn  on  the  highway  leading  up 
from  Albany. 

Summer  boarders  are  now  entertained  there — 
summer  boarders  with  "  references " — the  only 
chilling  thought  to  be  associated  with  a  place  of  so 
much  evident  good  cheer.  By  assuming  our  best 
manner  we  remained  for  an  hour  or  two  without 


SCENERY  "WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN" 

creating  distrust,  and  so  far  as  I  am  concerned 
I  could  have  put  off  our  trip  indefinitely  to  sit 
by  the  side  of  the  present  Boniface  and  learn  of 
Fort  Ticonderoga,  Crown  Point,  Skenesborough, 
and  all  those  acres  round  about,  which  had 
been  fought  over  from  the  wars  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  to  the  last  battle  on  the  lake 
in  1814. 

In  the  writing-room  of  the  Manor  there  is  a 
high  black  marble  mantelpiece.  We  were  ac- 
customed to  smaller  affairs  of  this  Victorian 
mould  in  our  houses  of  the  Middle  West.  But 
this  generously  proportioned  specimen  had  been 
made  for  a  Southern  plantation  in  1860,  and  the 
Civil  War,  enforcing  camp-fires  for  warm  hearths, 
had  so  curtailed  the  orders  that  Vermont  house- 
holders had  been  able  to  buy — no  doubt  at  a 
bargain — the  extravagances  of  their  enemy. 

There  was  a  scrap  of  a  fire  in  the  grate,  and 
comfortable  chairs  of  an  earlier  period  drawn  up 
before  the  blaze,  and  there  is  no  more  comfort- 
able way  of  acquiring  knowledge  than  to  sit  in 
one  of  these  chairs  and  listen  to  Mr.  Hyde  as 
he  sits  in  another.  Mr.  Hyde's  father  was  one 
of  those  who  carried  a  gun  when  he  attended 
service  on  Sunday,  and  he  knew  what  he  was 
talking  about.  But  I  did  not  always  agree  with 
him,  although  I  did  not  say  so,  mindful  that  we 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

had  no  "references"  with  us  and  must  be  cir- 
cumspect in  our  behaviour. 

Although  "  Fort  Ti "  was  built  to  resist  the 
French  and  the  Indians,  our  most  thrilling  asso- 
ciation with  it  is  its  surrender  by  the  British  to 
Captain  Ethan  Allen  and  Benedict  Arnold.  I 
did  not  know  until  recently  that  Benedict  Arnold 
accompanied  Ethan  Allen  on  this  expedition.  As 
far  back  as  Bennington  I  fear  I  spoke  of  Allen 
sending  him  flying  with  the  flat  of  his  sword 
when  he  presented  his  commission  which  gave  him 
the  right  to  take  charge  of  the  Green  Mountain 
Boys  for  this  attack  upon  the  British.  Benning- 
ton would  probably  say,  "  That's  my  story  and 
I'll  stick  to  it,"  but  I  always  felt  uncertain  about 
the  facts,  as  Arnold  was  a  soldier  of  fortune, 
accustomed  to  swords,  and  in  the  end  had  the 
temerity  to  turn  traitor.  I  do  not  admit  that 
turning  traitor  is  commendable,  but  I  still  claim 
it  takes  courage,  as  he  courted  death  and,  need- 
less to  add,  received  it. 

According  to  my  latest  historian  it  was  left  to 
the  subordinate  officers  of  Allen's  regiment  as 
to  the  disposal  of  this  question  of  leadership,  and, 
with  a  good  deal  of  tact  for  green  Mountain 
Boys,  it  was  decided  that  they  should  both  be 
leaders,  Arnold  acting  as  assistant  to  Allen. 

This  worked  fairly  well  until  they  neared  the 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

fort,  when  an  altercation  again  arose  as  to  which 
leader  should  go  first.  Once  more  the  subordi- 
nates were  consulted,  and  once  more  it  was  de- 
cided that  they  should  go  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
not  one  before  the  other.  This  they  did,  crossing 
the  lake  in  boats,  and  leaving  Seth  Warner  with 
another  detachment  to  bring  up  the  rear. 

There  was  no  resistance  made  when  they  ar- 
rived at  the  fort,  and  while  I  am  a  good  Ameri- 
can, I  don't  see  how  there  could  have  been. 
Allen  had  two  hundred  seventy  men  in  all  and 
there  were  but  forty-eight  garrisoning  a  fort 
largely  gone  to  pieces. 

Although  I  would  not  say  this  to  Mr.  Hyde, 
I  can  go  further  as  an  iconoclast,  and  venture 
that  if  any  one  at  all  cried,  "  Surrender  in  the 
name  of  the  great  Jehovah  and  the  Continental 
Congress!"  it  was  as  apt  to  be  Benedict  Arnold 
as  Ethan  Allen.  Perhaps,  upon  the  advice  of 
their  men,  they  said  it  together,  or,  quite  as  likely, 
it  was  never  said  at  all. 

I  have  noticed  (in  my  limited  attendance  upon 
history-making  moments)  that  men  are  particu- 
larly inarticulate  under  great  stress.  It  is  after- 
wards, in  the  polishing  of  the  tale,  that  rounded 
aphorisms  steal  in  which  one  cannot  decry,  for 
the  nobility  of  the  phrase  stands  very  fittingly 
for  the  nobility  of  the  deed. 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

It  is  an  awful  thought,  however.  Did  Nelson 
exhort:  "England  expects  every  man  to  do  his 
duty."  Did  General  Stark  utter:  '  There  are 
the  Red  Coats,  and  they  are  ours,  or  this  night 
Molly  Stark  sleeps  a  widow."  And  did,  oh  did 
Admiral  Dewey  quietly  command :  ' '  You  may 
fire  when  you  are  ready,  Gridley." 

I  hasten  to  add  that,  on  second  thoughts,  Ad- 
miral Dewey  probably  uttered  this  order.  There 
are  too  many  alive  to  rise  up  and  confute  me. 
Indeed,  there  could  be  no  simpler  method  of  ex- 
pression— nor  one  more  modest.  It  is  not  the 
form  in  this  instance,  but  our  admiration  of  the 
man,  that  has  given  the  words  any  great  signifi- 
cance. Yes,  "  You  may  fire  when  you  are  ready, 
Gridley,"  savours  of  the  inarticulate.  I  trust  it 
will  go  down  in  history  without  further  trim- 
mings. 

This  leaving  behind  of  Seth  Warner  was  no 
fault  of  the  gallant  officer,  but  it  recalls  an  ex- 
pression of  one  of  the  Revolutionary  leaders, 
which  I  did  not  glean  from  Mr.  Hyde,  but  by 
predatory  raids  upon  the  Public  Library.  In  a 
later  conflict,  which  ended  in  victory  for  the 
patriots,  Seth  Warner,  in  coming  up  with  rein- 
forcements, "moved  so  extremely  slow  that  he 
saved  his  own  men  and  hurt  none  of  his  enemy." 
And  it  passes  through  my  mind — a  mind  averse 
-*- 144  -e- 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

to  warfare  of  any  sort — that  a  little  less  activity 
in  "  getting  there "  might  be  the  solution  of 
most  of  our  contentions  in  life.  A  little  late 
with  the  hot  retort,  a  little  late  with  the  "  come- 
back," and  when  we  did  arrive  to  find  the  diffi- 
culty adjusted  by  the  dignity  of  silence — and  of 
absence. 

But  I  am  moralising  again!  I  venture  into 
this  imaginative  realm  only  to  show  that  one  can 
glean  even  from  chronicles  anything  he  wants  to 
find.  And  there  is  humour  in  all  things.  I  like 
to  think  that  our  ragged  soldiers  in  those  days 
got  some  fun  out  of  it — fun  besides  the  savage 
happiness  of  warfare,  which  remains  debatable. 

They  had  fun  at  Skenesborough.  We  visited 
the  hamlet  mentally  with  Mr.  Hyde  before  the 
high  black  mantelpiece.  The  patriot,  Captain 
Herrick,  with  thirty  men,  acquired  this  nearby 
village,  taking  the  Tory,  Major  Skene,  twelve 
negroes,  and  thirty  dependents.  In  searching  the 
Major's  house  they  found  something  more. 

In  the  cellar  was  Mrs.  Skene,  deceased  for 
many  years,  but  unburied.  She  was  the  elder  Mrs. 
Skene,  and  "  sojourning  in  Europe "  was  her 
husband,  collecting  an  annuity  which  was  granted 
her,  so  ran  the  will  of  a  relative,  "  as  long  as  she 
remained  above  ground."  It  is  said  that  Cap- 
tain Herrick  buried  her  immediately  in  the  gar- 
-*- 145  -*- 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

den,  thus,  like  a  good  patriot,  cutting  off  the 
enemy's  revenue. 

After  luncheon  I  was  pulled  away  from  Hyde 
Manor,  feeling  the  desire  to  go  limp  like  a  bad 
child  clinging  to  the  hand  of  a  parent.  On  we 
went  up  the  post  road  toward  Burlington,  won- 
derfully early  for  us,  as  I  was  lured  into  the 
car  by  the  promise  that  we  would  go  out  in  a 
small  boat  on  the  lake  if  we  arrived  before 
dusk. 

The  Illustrator  was  as  full  of  hope  of  arriv- 
ing before  dusk  as  though  he  had  ever  done  it. 
He  said,  while  he  had  sworn  to  travel  by  no 
method  of  transportation  other  than  a  motor,  that 
we  could  doubtless  get  a  motor-boat.  We  met 
a  party  on  the  road  just  beyond  the  Manor  with 
this  usual  determination  of  the  automobilist.  At 
least  they  were  sticking  to  the  car,  although  a  pair 
of  horses  was  drawing  it. 

We  could  hear  them  laugh  consciously  as  we 
passed,  but  we  did  not  look  their  way — we  had 
been  in  that  same  predicament  ourselves,  and  we 
could  see,  without  looking,  that  gay  defiant  ex- 
pression which  each  was  wearing.  Why  do  we 
take  mechanical  misdemeanors  so  much  to  heart? 
It  isn't  as  though  a  motor  had  been  born  and 
brought  up  with  us.  As  the  wife  said  of  her 
husband:  "  Thank  heaven  he's  no  blood  relation." 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

Possibly  it  is  not  wounded  vanity,  but  a  more 
right-minded  sensation  in  finding  ourselves 
worsted  by  a  few  cogs,  a  blue  spark,  and  an 
ill-smelling  commodity.  Even  the  occupants  of 
the  back  seat  share  the  shame  of  the  mechanician, 
and  feel  enormously  tall  when  other  motorists 
meet  them. 

I  have  often  wanted  to  lean  out,  in  passing 
such  unfortunates,  and  ask  them  if  they  were 
ever  pulled  by  a  cow  which  the  owner  insisted 
upon  milking  en  route  in  the  streets  of  a  French 

village,  but  W declares  that  the  retailing  of 

the  episode  would  be  too  magnanimous  for  any 
one  to  comprehend.  The  incident  recurred  to  us, 
however,  revivified  by  the  presence  of  many  cows 
in  the  pastures.  The  fields  were  no  longer  en- 
closed by  stone  fences.  The  roots  of  trees,  re- 
sembling lines  of  unbroken  cacti,  made  the  bar- 
riers. There  were  few  fences  in  front  of  the 
houses,  the  green  lawns  sloping  charmingly  to 
the  white  road.  On  each  porch  there  were  milk 
pails,  huge  ones,  such  as  drive  through  our  New 
York  streets. 

In  truth,  they  do  drive  through  our  streets, 
for  the  milk  of  this  district  is  bought  up  by  a 
great  concern  who  tempt  you  with  picture  dis- 
plays in  the  Subway  of  their  own  cows  and  their 
own  pastures.  The  farmers'  cows  seem  quite  as 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

sleek  as  the  cattle  in  the  advertisements,  and  as 
all  of  the  milk  undergoes  some  process  of  reno- 
vating, like  a  continual  spring  house  cleaning,  I 
suppose  it  matters  very  little  who  owns  them. 

Before  we  reached  Vergennes  the  Illustrator 
made  a  sketch — and  swore  at  the  sun.  It  was  a 
lovely  silent  old  farmhouse,  with  nobody  at  home 
save  the  cat,  looking  severely  at  us  through  a 
closed  window.  There  was  an  old  sofa  on  the 
porch.  There  are  old  sofas  on  most  of  the 
porches,  and  an  odd  rocker  or  two,  but  I  have  no 
recollection  now  of  any  one  resting  on  them. 

I  have  thought  much  of  the  chairs  of  the  rich. 
It  is  rather  a  mania  with  me.  The  chairs  of  those 
rich  who  have  no  social  place,  chairs  all  over  the 
house  that  have  never  been  sat  upon — nor  ever  will 
be  sat  upon.  Gems  of  chairs,  with  inviting  arms, 
in  a  far  corner  of  a  drawing-room  that  no  one 
ever  visits — hospitable  creations  unfulfilling  their 
mission.  But  these  unoccupied  couches  are  just 
as  disquieting,  for  in  every  house  is  a  woman  too 
busy  to  drop  down  and  rest  for  an  instant. 
Surely  a  woman's  work  is  never  done. 

We  stopped  at  Vergennes  for  post-cards,  but 
found  the  day  bitterly  opposed  to  any  purchas- 
ing. W ,  who  is  a  hysterical  lover  of  boats 

for  a  man  born  inland,  had  hoped  to  find  some 
prints  of  the  old  American  fleet  of  1812  that  had 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

been  fitted  out  here.  Vergennes  is  some  distance 
from  Lake  Champlain,  but  Otter  Creek,  as  well 
as  many  another  inlet,  is  navigable,  and  while 
our  men  were  busy  in  the  shipyards  the  British 
were  taking  apart  their  ocean-going  vessels, 
carrying  them  over  the  rapids  of  Richelieu,  and 
economically  putting  them  together  again  for 
use  on  the  lake. 

One  may  wonder  why  this  ninety  miles  of  glit- 
tering water,  looking  now  as  though  created 
only  for  summer  visitors,  should  have  been  for  so 
long  a  bone  of  contention.  But  before  the  days 
of  steam  and  rail  it  was  considered  the  key  be- 
tween Canada  and  New  York.  More  than  that, 
it  was  necessary  for  the  Americans  to  prove 
themselves  victors  on  the  lake  to  encourage  the 
uneasy  settlers  round  about  into  believing  that 
patriotism,  like  honesty,  was  the  best  policy. 

It  was  evident,  as  we  continued  on  the  long 
white  way,  that  our  best  policy  was  a  moderate 
pace.  Along  the  miles  of  good  turnpike  were 
posted  signs  at  regular  intervals  forbidding  us  to 
go  faster  than  six  miles  an  hour,  which  is  but  the 
jog  trot  of  a  slow  horse.  And  while  we  did  not 
heed  the  mandate  entirely,  one  is  always  affected 
by  it.  The  Selectmen  who  made  the  laws — and 
were  probably  scooting  around  the  country  in 
Fords — are  as  cruel  in  giving  us  good  roads  and 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

forbidding  us  to  enjoy  them  as  would  be  a  host 
who  prepares  a  feast  for  a  hungry  man  and  dares 
him  to  eat  it. 

We  suffered  as  did  Tantalus  most  of  the  day, 
for  everything  we  wanted  as  we  passed  through 
the  villages  was  staring  out  at  us  from  show- 
windows,  while  the  doors  remained  locked.  Even 
the  road-houses  were  forbidding,  one  displaying 
the  sinister  sign,  "  Auto  parties  kept  here,"  which 
too  ominously  suggested  the  county  jail  to  en- 
courage lingering. 

Back  at  Middlebury  (it  came  before  Vergennes, 
proving  I  am  a  poor  pathfinder),  we  had  taken 
on  gasoline,  filling  the  tank  to  overflowing  in  the 
desire  to  buy  something.  I  understand  that  the 
best  day  in  the  shops  of  any  city  is  Monday,  the 
result,  I  now  deduce,  from  that  enforced  inac- 
tivity of  the  purse-strings  during  the  day  pre- 
vious. To  get  out  and  BUY  something — that  is 
the  craving  of  the  American. 

But  nature  continued  prodigal  without  price. 
We  now  had  the  Green  Mountains  to  the  right 
of  us,  while  beyond  the  shimmering  water  on 
our  left  were  the  well-defined  ranges  of  the 
Adirondacks.  The  valley  between  was  green  and 
fertile.  We  felt  that  the  ground  had  been  worth 
fighting  for,  and  were  selfishly  glad  that  it  had 
all  been  arranged  before  we  came  a-motoring 
.-*•  150  -*- 


•:^^mm^s& 

i*'-^—  J'^'^-o*--      _.-^r  ;-^.:«?r-'"r--'^'^--.?,.<«fcii.:--x-i!^_:  ^ 


KHOM    THK    IIO'l'Kl.     KOOF    CAKDKN.    Bt'RI.INGTON 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

along.  Then,  too,  the  sun  was  still  shining  and 
we  were  not  far  from  Burlington. 

"  Boat,  boat,  boat,"  the  Illustrator  cried  en- 
ticingly whenever  I  wanted  to  get  out  and  watch 
the  cows — on  the  other  side  the  root  fences.  In 
fact,  he  said  boat  once  too  often,  for  our  present 
vehicle,  resenting  his  desire  to  abandon  it,  saw  a 
nail  in  the  road,  picked  it  up  with  great  skill,  and 
in  a  few  moments  was  lolling  wickedly  at  the 
wayside  with  a  tire  down — and  I  was  going  up 
to  a  kitchen  door  to  talk  to  the  children. 

There  was  a  choice  of  kitchen  doors,  for  houses 
lay  on  both  sides  the  turnpike,  but  a  white  placard 
was  tacked  to  the  porch  of  one,  and,  while  I  could 
not  read  it  from  a  distance,  I  feared  it  might 
bear  an  inhospitable  reference  to  visitors.  It 
might  only  be  "  Cream  separator  used  here " 
(which  is  not  conducive  to  my  mind  to  the  buying 
of  milk),  yet  it  might  read:  "  No  conversation  on 
Sunday." 

So  I  straggled  past  a  porch  with  a  shabby 
sofa,  up  the  worn  path  to  the  kitchen  of  the 
placardless  house,  and  I  nodded  to  the  children 
peering  through  the  closed  window — although  the 
day  was  mild — and  I  waited. 

I  knocked  twice.  The  dime  in  my  hand  for  a 
glass  of  milk  began  to  grow  smaller,  and  I  was 
wondering  if  I  could  not  hurriedly  substitute  a 
-j-151-1- 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

quarter,  so  nervous  does  one  become  when  one 
feels  unwelcome  (How  generous  are  we  to  the 
indifferent!),  before  I  was  heeded. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  tired  young  mother 
with  the  north  New  England  accent,  which  is 
very  pleasant  to  the  ear.  I  had  a  chance  of  judg- 
ing, for  she  talked  more  than  I  did — and  seemed 
glad  to  do  it.  But  she  would  not  let  me  in,  for 
her  children  had  been  exposed  to  infantile  pa- 
ralysis— yes — they  had  it  across  the  street  where 
the  placard  was.  I  asked  a  question — yes,  where 
the  milk  cans  were  waiting.  Her  children  had 
played  with  their  neighbours'  children — and  her 
baby  wasn't  very  well.  Her  voice  did  not  break, 
but  all  the  wires  of  her  soul  were  taut. 

With  an  over-dramatic  imagination,  prompted 
by  a  desire  to  be  of  service,  I  admitted  the  dis- 
ease in  my  own  family — a  family  particularly 
free  from  such  ailments.  And  to  encourage  her 
completely  I  added  that  they  all  got  well. 

She  considered  me  gravely.  "  There  is  a  sight 
of  it  in  this  part  of  the  country,"  she  said. 
'  There  are  two  little  boys  near  by.  They  lived 
too.  But  they  never  got  over  it." 

I  suggested  that  she  had  everything  on  her 
side.  I  tried  to  enumerate  them,  but  I  could  find 
nothing  on  her  side  save  country  air.  It  was  very 
lame.  I  didn't  believe  it  any  more  than  did  she. 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

The  older  children  came  out  and  I  gave  them 
chocolates.  They  were  thin-chested  as  was  the 
mother.  She  eyed  them — and  then  me,  to  see 
how  much  she  could  let  herself  say  to  a  stranger. 
"  Could  it  " — she  ventured — "  could  it  come  from 
tuberculosis? " 

"  No,"  I  answered,  stoutly  concealing  my 
ignorance,  "  from  a  weak  condition  of  the  bones." 

Her  face  cleared  for  the  moment.  "  Our  bones 
are  strong,"  she  said. 

It  was  dusk  when  we  reached  Burlington!  And 
too  late  to  go  out  in  the  boat,  but  I  didn't  care 
much.  It  seemed  that  the  joy  of  going  out  in  the 
boat,  added  to  this  swift  flying  away  from  sorrow, 
was  too  much  for  an  individual  replete  with  bless- 
ings that  she  did  not  particularly  deserve.  I  was 
almost  glad  that  the  rooms  shown  us  were  not 
attractive.  And  I  was  straightway  rewarded  for 
accepting  them  in  the  proper  spirit,  as  a  very 
pleasant  clerk  quitted  his  desk  and  came  up 
jangling  keys  himself  to  show  us  others  that 
looked  out  upon  the  lake. 

This  was  more  after  the  fashion  of  foreign  inns. 
Although  Burlington  was  a  city  and  this  a  com- 
mercial as  well  as  a  summer  hotel,  I  was  glad  we 
stopped  at  the  Van  Ness,  instead  of  the  newer 
house  across  the  way,  for  there  is  nothing  so 
effective  as  courtesy. 


SCENERY  "  WITH  THE  TOP  DOWN  " 

After  supper  I  sent  off  some  letters  from  the 
writing-room.  I  could  look  into  the  lobby  and 
watch  W-  -  being  strongly  advised  to  take  cer- 
tain roads  on  the  morrow.  The  adviser  was  a 
brisk  young  man  who  knew  so  much  that,  mind- 
ful of  my  own  imaginary  flights,  I  held  him  in 
poor  esteem.  And,  at  that,  as  it  developed  the 
next  day,  I  esteemed  him  too  highly. 

A  local  politician  who  had  successfully  over- 
come the  Sunday  liquor  law  came  in,  dripping 
cigars.  W-  avoided  him,  but  later  I  dis- 
covered our  young  chauffeur,  with  his  derby  on, 
smoking  a  large  one  (cigar,  not  derby),  while 
two  more  protruded  from  his  pocket.  I  think 
the  general  impression  was  that  he  owned  the  car 
and  was  taking  us  on  a  trip. 

The  roof  garden  was  but  a  flight  above  our 
bedrooms,  and  we  sat  there  for  a  while,  watching 
the  lights  of  the  ploughing  steamers,  which  would 
have  filled  even  the  stout  heart  of  General  Cham- 
plain  with  fear,  could  he  have  awakened  from  his 
three  centuries  of  sleep.  But  all  else  was  so  quiet 
that  he  probably  would  have  put  down  this 
progress  as  a  bad  dream  and  turned  and  slept 
again. 


154 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Adventures  of  the  Road  with  the  White 
Mountains  on  Ahead 

I  WAS  awakened  the  next  morning  by  a  song.  It 
was  a  pretty  song,  although  not  well  sung,  for 
the  Illustrator  was  making  the  music. 

"  Down  the  mountainside  we  will  smoothly 
glide,"  he  warbled,  ending  up  in  a  series  of  fear- 
ful yodelings  spelled  something  like :  "  Ede-la-y- 
la-y-la-y-ooh." 

I  did  not  remonstrate  with  him,  for  this  burst 
into  a  Tyrolean  air  at  such  an  hour  was  an  indi- 
cation of  the  complete  immersion  of  the  artist 
into  the  motorist.  He  no  longer  awoke  for  the  de- 
lightful purpose  of  turning  over  and  going  to 
sleep  again.  He  now  opened  his  eyes  with  the 
immediate  intention  of  bathing,  breakfasting,  and 
getting  into  the  car  as  soon  as  possible. 

He  was  a  man  with  a  Purpose.  I  am  not  sure 
that  it  makes  much  difference  what  our  purpose 
is  in  life  so  long  as  we  have  one.  This  morning 
it  was  the  attainment  of  the  White  Mountains. 

A  definite  point  ahead  is  a  stimulus  to  the 
mind.  One  must  have  a  goal  in  motoring,  as  in 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

life.  The  achievement  of  it  earns  a  night's  re- 
pose, and  the  failure  to  realise  it  but  increases 
our  endeavour.  It  is  the  best  inducement  I  can 
offer  a  traveller  of  the  road  for  a  mapped-out 
itinerary. 

The  White  Mountains  was  some  goal.  The 
prospect  rendered  our  previous  meanderings 
among  the  Berkshire  and  the  Green  Mountains, 
along  rivers,  around  lakes,  and  across  valleys, 
weak  and  inconsequential. 

Soon  we  were  eating  griddle-cakes  lavishly 
garnished  with  Vermont  maple  syrup  (very  pale) 
and  I  was  asking  the  white  waitress  why  they  never 
have  coloured  girls  in  the  dining-room  when  they 
have  coloured  boys  in  the  office.  She  looked  at 
me  in  frozen  horror  and  withdrew.  And,  al- 
though I  lingered  to  assure  her  that  I  didn't 
want  coloured  girls — I  simply  wanted  to  get  her 
opinion  on  the  subject — she  did  not  return.  So, 
no  doubt  the  coloured  boy,  who,  as  omnibus, 
gathered  up  the  dishes,  gathered  up  my  quarter 
intended  for  her. 

But  why  is  it  that  we  never  see  negro  wait- 
resses when  in  almost  all  of  the  large  hotels  in 
New  England  we  find  negro  boys  double  shuf- 
fling about  with  bags  and  stationery  and  ice 
water.  The  darky  never  ceases  to  be  a  joy. 
His  presence  in  America  atones,  in  a  measure, 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

for  the  lack  of  Roman  ruins,  which  besprinkle 
Europe.  No  negroes  are  there  except  a  few  also 
riding  in  motor-cars. 

I  watched  one  as  he  put  on  the  luggage.  He 
described  so  many  curves  during  the  operation 
that  an  Efficiency  Expert  would  have  gone  mad 
over  the  lost  motions.  He  skated,  he  slid,  he 
swooped  bags  about,  and,  as  he  packed  each  arti- 
cle around  me,  he  so  alluringly  bowed  that  I  felt 
every  coin  in  my  purse  trying  to  get  out  and 
reach  his  palm. 

Tips  are  said  to  be  an  evil  of  our  times,  but 
the  man  who  has  to  give  them  makes  the  state- 
ment— that  vast  number  which  receives  the 
largesse  has  probably  found  it  no  crime.  There 
is  much  to  be  said  on  both  sides,  but  I  cannot 
think  that  it  is  a  system  which  should  be,  indeed 
can  be  abolished,  for  the  giving  of  a  tip  is  the 
recognition  of  personal  service.  It  is  the  only 
way  one  can  thank  a  man  who  is  not,  in  his 
present  capacity  at  least,  in  the  class  of  the  one 
who  dispenses  the  coin.  And  there  is  another 
reason — to  argue  for  the  other  side — that  was 
most  beautifully  exemplified  in  a  story  which 
came  to  me  recently. 

A  friend  of  mine  took  into  service  as  indoor 
man  one  who  had  attracted  her  attention  as  a 
most  perfect  waiter  in  a  hotel.  She  paid  him  the 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

same  amount  that  he  averaged  as  a  waiter,  and 
she  found  him  as  satisfactory  in  her  own  home  as 
she  had  expected  him  to  be.  Yet  at  the  end  of  a 
few  months  he  begged  to  return  to  his  more  ex- 
hausting duties  in  a  great  caravansary. 

"I  don't  know  as  I  can  make  it  plain  to  you, 
madam,"  he  said  to  her  earnestly.  "  But  it's 
the  tips  that  I  look  forward  to;  not  that  they  are 
any  more  on  the  whole  than  I  get  here,  but  there's 
always  an  uncertainty  about  it.  I  keep  wonder- 
ing if  I  am  to  get  a  good  deal,  or  very  little,  and 
it  makes  the  day  interesting.  It's  a  kind  of  an 
adventure,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  madam." 

Ah,  the  Great  Adventure!  not  so  much  of  a 
one  but  his,  and  life  would  be  flat,  indeed,  if  we 
were  not  playing  a  game  of  some  sort.  Remem- 
ber this:  each  time  that  we  dig  into  our  pockets 
we  add  to  the  romance  of  greyer  souls  than  ours. 

While  W admits  this  he  regrets  that  it  re- 
quires larger  and  still  larger  sums  yearly  to 
colour  these  grey  souls.  He  is  glad  that  a  quar- 
ter still  lends  a  rosy  tinge,  but  deplores  that  a 
ten-cent-piece  adds  so  little  nowadays  to  the 
glow  of  the  spirit,  and  he  broods  sadly  over 
the  good  old  days  when  a  five-cent-piece  would 
have  metamorphosed  the  dullest  of  shades  into 
a  crimson  rambler. 

This  extravagance  is  the  fault  of  the  giver — 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

fearing  to  be  niggardly  we  grow  lavish.  And  if 
there  are  any  of  us  left  who  tip  in  accordance 
to  the  service  bestowed,  he  is  still  contributing 
to  the  pleasure  of  the  dependent,  for  I  infer 
from  the  story  of  the  waiter  that  it  is  the  element 
of  chance  which  composes  largely  the  joy  of  the 
adventure. 

Satisfied,  satiated,  the  domestic  scraped  up  the 
steps  backwards  as  we  left  the  hotel,  and  a  traf- 
fic policeman  bade  us  keep  straight  on  for  the 
White  Mountains.  We  had  no  thought  of  mak- 
ing any  detour  about  the  charming  town,  al- 
though we  should  have  done  so.  We  have 
learned  little  of  Burlington  beyond  the  fact  that 
the  first  town  meeting  was  held  in  1787,  and  a 
gentleman  named  Orange  Smith  ran  the  first 
store — presumably  a  fruit  store. 

We  have  put  down  Burlington  for  a  future 
attack.  In  pursuance  of  some  such  idea,  I  have 
in  a  drawer  of  my  desk  a  mass  of  clippings, 
programmes,  and  various  souvenirs  that  I  plan 
pasting  into  a  scrapbook — when  I  break  my  legs. 
I  did  not  know  why  I  am  counting  on  this  en- 
forced idleness  which  will  come  to  me,  nor  is  there 
any  place  for  the  discussion  of  it  here,  but  it  is 
with  some  such  sop  to  my  conscience  that  I  hasten 
away  from  the  New  England  towns  which  par- 
ticularly attract  us.  As  surely  as  I  am  going  to 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

break  my  legs,  I  shall  return  to  these  places — 
with  a  like  leisure  and  a  great  deal  more  of  en- 
joyment. 

We  swept  into  the  East  with  greater  success 
than  another  car  which  stopped  firmly  on  the 
crossing,  in  spite  of  the  traffic  policeman,  who 
said  it  couldn't  be  done.  The  husband  was  driv- 
ing while  his  wife,  shrouded  in  a  green  veil,  sat 
in  the  back  seat.  (I  know  it  was  his  wife  be- 
cause she  was  in  the  back  seat.)  There  is  a 
satisfaction  in  sweeping  around  another  car  while 
they  are  trying  to  awaken  it  to  activity  again — 
a  satisfaction  that  is  always  punished.  But  one 
does  not  reflect  upon  this  as  one  sweeps. 

A  block  or  so  on  we  made  another  quick  curv- 
ing out  to  avoid  a  sawhorse,  which  fell  from  the 
rear  of  a  cart.  The  carter  was  unconscious  of 
his  loss,  nor  did  he  awake  to  it  when  I  oracularly 
cried  as  we  passed  him :  ' '  You  have  lost  your 
horse."  He  had  not  lost  his  horse,  as  he  was 
driving  it,  and  he  looked  at  me  in  disgust,  con- 
tinuing on  without  recovering  the  sawbuck.  We 
never  saw  the  carter  again,  so  there  is  no  end 
to  this  slice  of  life,  but — alas — we  again  saw  the 
wife  with  the  green  veil.  A  few  miles  out  of  the 
town  an  old  friend  of  ours  passed  away,  burst- 
ing with  a  loud  report.  It  was  not  an  unex- 
pected death.  He  had  accompanied  us  for  over 
-+160+- 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

a  year,  developing  protuberances  which  were 
unlovely  as  time  went  on,  and,  of  late,  a  flapping 
elephant  ear.  It  hit  the  ground  with  a  resound- 
ing whack  more  often  in  a  minute  than  one  would 
have  thought  possible  for  a  car  of  moderate  pace. 

As  there  were  children  about,  I  hoped  to  give 
the  old  casing  to  them,  and  the  Illustrator  hoped 
that  he  would  be  generous  enough  to  do  it  also, 
for  he  is  fond  of  children.  You  could  see  him 
struggling  with  his  love  for  children  and  his  love 
for  old  things,  but  he  strapped  it  on  the  car  in 
the  end  because  "  I  have  had  it  for  so  long."  It 
is  a  family  trait.  He  has  a  great-aunt  who 
boasts  that  she  has  never  thrown  away  a  cork. 

He  placated  the  children  by  sending  in  some 
magazines  to  their  mother.  Never  leave  a  maga- 
zine in  a  hotel  for  an  indifferent  chambermaid  to 
pitch  into  the  waste-basket.  I  believe,  with  choco- 
late in  one  hand,  magazines  in  the  other,  and  six 
courteous  phrases  of  the  language  of  the  coun- 
try in  your  mouth,  you  can  make  friends  in  any 
clime. 

The  wife  with  the  green  veil  sailed  past  us  as 
I  was  looking  for  an  inner-tube  in  the  hatbox. 
She  did  not  stop  nor  glance  our  way,  but  a  young 
man,  driving  a  gay  little  nag,  drew  up  alongside, 
and  we  fell  into  violent  conversation.  I  found 
him  a  most  pleasant  young  man  in  the  beginning. 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

It  was  evident  from  his  first  speech  that  he  kept 
abreast  of  the  times. 

It  was  not  until  later  that  I  discovered  he  not 
only  kept  abreast,  but  outstripped  them.  At 
least  he  outstripped  me,  and  now  that  I  look 
back  upon  our  swift  meeting  and  parting  I 
realise  that  the  young  man  and  I  were  extraordi- 
narily alike.  So  alike  that  we  could  never  have 
hit  it  off  very  well  anyway,  so  perhaps  it  was 
best  that  we  separated  when  we  did. 

There  was  nothing  I  had  ever  thought  of  that 
the  young  man  had  not  thought  of  before  me. 
We  were  applying  the  engine  to  the  tube  for  the 
pumping  up  of  the  tire,  and  I  told  him  that  I 
had  declared  seven  years  ago  that  this  should  be 
invented.  He  said  he  had  told  his  wife  the  same 
thing  eight  years  back. 

I  then  remarked  that  nine  years  ago  I  had  in- 
sisted to  the  Illustrator  that  there  ought  to  be 
some  way  to  generate  sufficient  electricity  to  start 
a  car.  He  remembered  that  he  had  spoken  of 
the  same  thing  to  his  cousin  ten  years  ago — he 
wasn't  married  then. 

In  a  great  rush  so  as  to  get  ahead  of  me  he 
now  quickly  claimed  he  was  the  first  human 
being  to  think  of  using  the  batteries  for  lighting 
the  car,  and  the  invention  of  the  Klaxon  was  all 
in  his  head.  I  swallowed  the  statement,  for  it 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

was  beneath  my  dignity  to  question  his  being  the 
very  first  to  ponder  on  these  things  when  I  was 
older  than  he  and  may  have  worked  it  out  in  my 
cradle.  But  I  triumphantly  hinted  that  I  was  at 
present  working  on  a  device  for  signalling  automo- 
biles behind  us  as  we  turned  to  the  right  or  left. 
I  would  not  say  overmuch,  for  one  should  not 
who  has  an  invention  still  unperfected. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  way  he  gathered  up  the 
reins — just  as  an  actor  leaves  the  stage  upon  the 
delivery  of  an  exit  speech.  "  I  got  one  of  them 
on  my  car  already,"  was  his  parting  shot. 

W endeavoured  to  soothe  me  when  he  had 

gone  out  of  my  life.  "  All  that  either  of  you  did 
was  to  think  of  the  inventions,"  he  said ;  "  why 
didn't  you  work  them  out?"  Yes,  why  didn't 
we?  That  young  man  and  I  were  too  much 
alike. 

I  turned  my  attention  to  the  landscape.  Who 
was  it  said,  "  Nature  never  did  desert  the  heart 
that  loves  her  "  — or  words  to  that  effect?  I  know 
nothing  more  remarkable  than  the  way  we  fly  to 
her  when  mankind  disappoints  us.  Nothing  more 
remarkable,  at  least,  unless  it  is  the  way  we  fly 
from  her  when  mankind  again  beckons  his  fin- 
ger toward  us. 

After  all,  I  wonder  how  much  are  green  fields 
and  wide  vistas  food  for  the  soul.  We  were  now 
.-*•  163  -J- 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

in  a  broad  fertile  valley  with  far  views  of  lovely 
hills.  Sleek  cattle  were  in  the  pastures,  but  the 
farmhouses  were  poor  and  mean.  Even  those 
with  the  large  milk  cans  before  the  door  had 
broken  window-panes  stuffed  with  sacking  from 
the  ever-useful  Minnesota  flour  mills.  We  could 
look  into  the  uncurtained  rooms  of  the  upper 
stories  and  see  ill-made,  sagging  beds. 

The  views  from  the  doorsteps  were  inspiring, 
but  I  wonder  if  a  View  carries  much  solace  when 
the  comforts  of  the  creature  are  lacking.  Can  the 
soul  feed  the  body?  It  is  one  of  my  eternal 
questions — I  cannot  answer  it.  But  I  have  an 
uncomfortable  suspicion  that  a  decently-nourished 
body  will  go  as  far  as  a  mountain  view  toward 
elevating  the  spirit. 

The  valley  that  I  am  now  iconoclastically 
traversing  is  that  of  the  Winooski  River.  The 
name  fills  me  with  regret,  regret  that  we  did  not 
cling  to  this  Indian  appellation  for  the  vegetable 
we  designate  as  onion  when  we  took  upon  our- 
selves the  Indian  country.  Much  of  the  prejudice 
against  the  homely  bulb  might  never  have  de- 
veloped had  we  termed  it  by  this  fanciful  word. 

There  is  an  elegance  about  it  that  would  nullify 
criticism.  We  would  feel  more  lenient  toward 
our  neighbour  in  the  next  apartment  when,  as  we 
entered  our  hallway,  it  was  made  certain  that 


K  ^M^^r  •   M ,  nfe-%a 


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THK    HOAI)    TO    THK     KAST    TIIHOl XiH     TIIK    W1NOOSKI 
VAIJ.KY,    VKK.M(>\T 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

they  were  having  winooskis  for  dinner.  The 
young  man  could  take  longer  chances  with  his 
dinner  before  going  to  call  upon  his  inamorata, 
although  he  takes  fairly  long  chances  now. 
"  Excuse  me,  I  have  been  eating  winooskis," 
would  win  an  instant  pardon.  Even  the  young 
woman  who,  in  terror  of  "  losing  him,"  circum- 
scribes her  diet  closely  would  be  forgiven  for 
anything  as  charming  in  sound  as  a  "  winooski 
breath." 

I  spoke  of  these  things  to  W ,  but  he  was 

indifferent  to  my  suggestion  that  we  have  the 
name  changed  by  Act  of  Congress.  This  was 
the  result  of  selfishness.  In  the  adoption  of 
another  name  it  would  do  away  forever  with 
his  own  Bill,  which  he  has  been  for  years  eager 
to  bring  to  Washington.  One  of  the  Illustrator's 
noblest  aspirations  is  to  have  one  night  of  each 
week  devoted  to  the  eating  of  onions.  Actors, 
artists,  mere  business  men — with  money — can  all 
breathe  upon  one  another  without  apology.  The 
whole  world  would  be  full  of  the  odour  of  onions 
and  no  one  would  know  it.  It  is,  upon  reflection, 
rather  a  gigantic  scheme  and  I  admire  him  for  it. 
So  much  so  that  I  have  not  blackened  his  dream 
by  asking  what  he  will  do  with  those  who  cannot 
partake  of  the  delicacy. 

But  I  can  go  no  further  with  this  thought. 
-j-165-*- 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

He  has  called  in  from  his  workroom  to  ask 
what  I  am  writing  of  now,  and  in  a  terrible  panic 
I  have  called  back  Jonesville.  Jonesville  is  part 
of  our  motoring  day,  and  keeps  him  placidly  at 
his  drawing-board,  whereas  "  Onions "  or  even 
"Winooskis"  will  bring  him  raging  in  to  say 
I  am  ruining  the  sale  of  the  book — and  who 
will  see  his  illustrations? 

Jonesville  is  in  no  way  worthy  of  commemora- 
tion beyond  the  general  store  which  sells  clothes- 
dryers.  As  this  was  wash-day  we  discovered  a 
curious  type  of  clothes-dryers  all  along  the  route. 
It  is  a  most  excellent  arrangement  of  wooden 
strips,  which  let  down  and  unfold  and  pull  out, 
until  it  holds  a  washing  heavy  enough  for  the 
most  representative  of  households.  Yielding  to 
my  earnest  plea  we  slacked  our  pace  before  one 
farmhouse  long  enough  to  enable  me  to  ask  of 
the  apparatus  and  to  suggest  delicately  that  I 
would  like  to  know  where  it  came  from. 

I  had  visaged  it  arriving  parcel  post  from  a  great 
mail-order  house.  I  could  imagine  the  triumph 
of  the  first  resident  of  the  valley  who  had  chosen 
this  particular  kind  of  dryer  from  out  the  printed 
catalogue,  and  had  set  the  fashion  for  the  country- 
side. I  spent  a  year  once  in  a  lonely  orange 
grove,  and  I  remember  the  blissful  evenings 
hovering  over  the  catalogue  of  these  mysterious 
-+166+- 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

shops  where  the  purchaser  is  never  seen,  and 
the  clerks  must  be  the  greatest  readers  in  the 
world  of  character  from  handwriting. 

So  it  was  a  surprise  to  me  to  learn  that  I  could 
huy  them  at  Jonesville  and  at  Jonesville  only. 
True  enough,  when  we  passed  through  the  ham- 
let, there  was  one  alluringly  displayed  on  the 
sidewalk.  I  stared  at  it  longingly.  I  stuttered 

something  to  W about  its  being  no  worse  in 

appearance  if  tied  to  the  car  than  an  old  tire. 
He  grew  very  excited.  He  said  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  go  to  all  those  fashionable  hotels  in  the 
White  Mountains  with  a  clothes  dryer  strapped 
to  the  tire  case.  "  I  am  not  up  to  it — I  am  simply 
not  up  to  it ! "  he  cried  despairingly.  I  gazed  at 
him  with  pity.  He  saw  that  I  knew  he  was  a 
coward,  and  he  grew  cunning.  He  slowed  down. 
"  But  get  it  if  you  want  to.  It's  no  doubt  in- 
vented by  that  friend  you  made  when  our  tire 
burst." 

"  March  on,"  I  said  sternly. 

There  was  an  inclination  on  the  part  of  the 
citizens  at  Waterbury  to  keep  us  there  for  lunch- 
eon when  we  stopped  to  ask  the  distance  to  Mont- 
pelier.  We  did  not  ask  a  "  grown-up  "  at  first 
how  to  get  to  Montpelier,  for  the  reason  that  we 
did  not  know  how  to  pronounce  it.  We  knew 
the  Montpellier  of  France  well,  but  we  hesitated 
-j-167-*- 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

to  plunge  into  a  French  accent,  yet  there  were 
so  many  other  ways  of  pronouncing  it,  if  it  was 
Anglicised,  that  we  would  be  sure  to  be  wrong. 

We  did  not  deplore  this  accommodating  of  a 
French  word  to  an  English-speaking  people.  We 
Americans,  or  such  of  us  as  are  familiar  with 
another  tongue,  find  it  amusing  when  a  foreign 
word,  employed  in  social  usage,  is  pronounced 
after  our  own  fashion.  Yet  there  is  no  reason 
why  we  should  not  cling  to  our  English  rules. 
The  French  never  embody  an  English  word  into 
their  language  without  sounding  it  after  their 
own  laws  of  pronunciation.  In  this  way  they 
keep  their  language  pure  and  their  accent  invio- 
late. Let  us  do  away  with  "  restaurang," 
"  valeys,"  and,  as  in  this  case,  "  Mong-pel-ya." 

We  picked  upon  a  boy,  in  the  far  distance, 
before  reaching  Waterbury,  with  the  idea  of 
pointing  out  the  word  on  the  map  and  repeating 
his  pronunciation  after  him.  He  was  a  pleasant 
but  stupid  little  boy,  who  excused  his  inability  to 
read  by  saying  he  was  in  the  "  C  "  grade,  and 
when  we  enticingly  asked  him  to  name  some 
towns  roundabout,  he  could  think  only  of  Jones- 
ville. 

We  spied  another  boy  a  little  further  on,  but 
he  was  not  in  a  mood  for  answering  questions. 
He  was  standing  on  the  apex  of  a  woodpile  pitch- 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

ing  sticks  of  wood  into  a  shed,  and  he  was  very 
much  annoyed  at  being  obliged  to  do  this.  One 
cannot  blame  him,  as  it  was  the  noon  recess  and 
the  workman's  hour  of  delightful  ease.  He  was 
red  in  the  face,  and  muttering  horrible  things 
about  his  cruel  mother,  and,  just  as  we  passed, 
he  inadvertently  hurled  a  neat  little  log  through 
the  kitchen  window.  Above  the  crash  of  glass 
we  could  hear  the  expostulations  of  the  tyrant 
who  had  set  him  to  work,  but  a  curve  in  the  road 
blotted  out  the  scene — which  probably  became, 
very  shortly,  more  painful  than  it  had  been. 
That  is  one  of  the  drawbacks  of  motoring:  we 
rarely  see  both  cause  and  effect. 

It  was  a  garage-keeper  in  Waterbury  who 
finally  set  us  straight,  by  informing  us  that  the 
hotel  of  his  town  was  better  than  the  one  at 
"  Mount-Peel-yer."  Garages  are  dispensers  of 
information  to  motorists,  just  as  drug  stores  are 
to  pedestrians.  They  are  generally  truthful,  al- 
though it  is  hard  for  them  to  admit  that  the  roads 
are  not  excellent  going  in  and  out  of  their  town, 
and  that  their  hotel  is  not  the  best  in  the  state. 
With  a  rock-bound  civic  pride  they  will  not  even 
give  you  the  distance  to  the  next  town,  if  the 
traveller  asks  at  meal  time.  Nothing  extorts  the 
truth  from  them  but  our  intimation  that  we  do 
not  lunch. 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

We  acquired  Montpelier  before  the  dining- 
room  doors  had  closed,  although  they  were  clos- 
ing as  we  slipped  through  them,  and  banged  so 
vindictively  after  us  that  we  felt  like  unhappy 
flies  in  a  spider's  web.  A  very  amiable  spider 
reversed  the  order  of  things  which  generally  goes 
on  in  a  web,  overcoming  as  much  as  possible  the 
dreariness  of  the  architecture  by  an  array  of  food 
which  might  be  put  down  as  agreeable  interior 
decoration. 

This  building  of  oversized  hotels  and  opera 
houses  in  undersized  towns  is  done,  I  imagine,  to 
lure  the  village  to  growing  up  to  them,  unmind- 
ful that  there  is  nothing  so  dwarfing  as  a  stand- 
ard too  high  to  reach.  Since  Montpelier  is  the 
state  capital,  the  hotel  may  be  full  of  Solons  (as 
we  insist  upon  calling  them  in  the  newspapers) 
when  the  legislature  is  in  session.  Legislators, 
especially  when  called  Solons,  are  so  important 
in  appearance  that  a  very  few  can  fill  the  largest 
hotel  to  repletion. 

We  walked  over  to  the  State  House  to  see  the 
statue  of  Ethan  Allen  in  the  portico.  An  art 
editor  once  told  the  Illustrator  that  the  sculptor 
had  managed  workaday  clothes  on  the  figure,  and, 
more  than  that,  he  had  suggested,  by  the  rugged 
appearance  of  Allen's  countenance,  that  he  was 
probably  one  of  the  most  profane  men  of  his  day. 

rl-  170  -*-. 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

This  last  was  undoubtedly  what  held  the  Illus- 
trator. He  has  some  faults  of  his  own,  and  while 
not  sure  of  the  statue  to  keep  his  memory  green, 
he  intends  forbidding  any  possibility  of  one  in 
his  will  if  those  irascibilities  peculiar  to  him  were 
going  to  be  put  out  in  marble,  and  set  up  for 
all  the  world  to  stare  at.  Reflect  upon  the  en- 
durance of  a  marble  fault. 

This  statue  is  not  the  only  artistic  display  in 
Montpelier.  By  fishing  out  the  Baedeker  I 
made  a  discovery  all  my  own.  There  has  been 
no  mention  of  the  Baedeker  before,  as  I  have 
been  rather  shy  about  admitting  that  we  needed 
a  German  guidebook,  compiled  by  an  English- 
man, to  get  us  over  our  own  country.  Indeed  we 
have  not  needed  it,  but  our  motor-car  felt  so 
much  at  ease  with  the  familiar  red  book  in  its 
tonneau  that  we  took  it  along  as  a  sort  of  coach 
dog. 

It  is  not  an  enthusiastic  volume — it  dislikes  our 
cab  system — but  it  is  honest,  and  no  town  is  too 
small  for  a  word  as  to  its  merits  or  demerits.  It 
was  in  a  Baedeker  that  we  learned  of  the  art 
gallery  of  Montpelier  "  chiefly  consisting  of 
paintings  (original  and  copied)  by  Thomas  W. 

End."  I  did  not  tell  this  to  W ,  for  I  knew 

it  would  embitter  him  to  have  Thomas  W.  End 

go  down  to  posterity  when  from  cover  to  cover 

.-*- 171  -*- 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

there  is  no  mention  of  his  name,  and,  unless  he 
can  manage  a  beautiful  untruthful  statue  for 
himself,  there  probably  never  will  be. 

But  I  thought  long  after  we  motored  on  of 
the  Thomas  W.  Ends  in  life,  and  of  the  quality 
they  have  of  getting  into  print.  In  the  home 
towns  of  all  of  us  there  is  ever  an  individual 
who  appears  in  the  papers  oftener  than  we  do, 
and,  since  we  are  not  that  man,  he  seems  to  be 
in  no  way  worthy  of  such  attention.  In  this 
case,  as  long  as  Baedekers  are  bought  by  tourists 
visiting  America  Thomas  W.  End  will  be  es- 
teemed as  a  painter,  and,  since  he  furnishes  a 
complete  art  gallery,  as  a  prolific  one.  They 
may  even  buy  his  pictures,  and,  on  the  boat  home, 
ask  one  another  if  they  were  so  fortunate  as 
to  secure  a  Thomas  W.  End.  There  will 
be  no  finality  to  the  man  at  all — except  his 
name. 

But,  seriously,  or  as  seriously  as  one  can  be 
who  is  going  blithely  over  a  good  road  toward 
the  White  Mountains,  how  little  stress  can  be  or 
should  be  laid  on  the  artistic  endeavours  of  our 
young  country  when  so  much  can  be  said  of  its 
natural  beauty.  How  little  the  height  of  the 
dome  of  a  court  house  matters  when  that  court 
house  is  in  a  long  street  shaded  by  elms,  in  the 
possession  of  a  loveliness  that  no  other  land  can 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

claim.  For  of  this  I  was  sure  at  the  end  of 
eight  days  of  motoring  in  "  my  ain  countree." 

Having  arrived  at  this  satisfactory  conclusion 
we  sank  into  the  mud  beyond  Danville  and  gave 
every  evidence  of  remaining  there  indefinitely. 
We  need  not  have  gone  this  way;  it  was  not  the 
right  way,  but  was  the  result  of  the  Smart  Alec 
back  in  Burlington  who  knetv  all  about  routes,  and 
whom  I  had  suspected  from  his  verbosity  of  never 
having  been  in  a  motor-car.  We  were  warned 
that  the  road  was  in  process  of  new  construction, 
but  the  Smart  Alec  had  told  us  to  pay  no  atten- 
tion to  these  signs,  so  we  had  bumped  along  over 
broken  stones  with  workmen  stepping  aside  for 
us  until  the  rich  soil  of  Vermont  took  us  unto 
itself. 

The  roadmakers  behaved  very  well  about  it 
and  our  chauffeur  worked  like  a  fiend  tearing 
down  some  farmer's  carefully-built  wooden  fence, 
and  making  a  little  plank  path  for  our  car  to 
walk.  It  was  one,  two,  three,  let  in  the  clutch, 
and  all  push,  and  just  as  we  were  getting  out  the 
wife  with  the  green  veil  passed  us,  triumphantly 
making  the  turn  we  should  have  taken.  We  had 
seen  her  at  Montpelier,  as  she  and  her  husband 
were  going  in  to  view  the  Thomas  W.  Ends,  and 
the  hope  that  we  had  met  them  for  the  last  time 
was  engendered  not  only  from  an  antipathy  to 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

green  veils,  but  to  the  conclusion  that  the  green 
veil  brought  us  misfortune. 

After  we  were  out  of  the  worst  of  the  mire 
we  stayed  so  long  offering  sustenance  to  the  road- 
makers  from  a  flask  that  we  sank  into  the  soft 
road  again  and  were  pushed  out  of  it  once  more  by 
our  new  friends.  I  wished  to  repeat  the  convivial 
offer,  but  as  they  themselves  unselfishly  reminded 
me,  any  further  lingering  would  bring  the  same 
results,  we  finally  wavered  up  the  hill,  crossed  a 
pasture,  and  worked  back  to  the  main  road. 

Still  we  didn't  regret  meeting  them.  They 
were  fine,  capable  young  fellows,  much  more 
worthy  of  a  place  in  Baedeker  than  the  height  of 
a  court  house  dome,  and  to  be  classed  with  the 
landscape  as  part  of  the  charms  of  American 
touring. 

The  valley  had  been  narrowing  since  Mont- 
pelier,  and  by  the  time  we  reached  St.  Johns- 
bury  we  were  quivering  with  the  certainty  that 
the  White  Mountains  would  be  ours — and  before 
dusk.  It  was  not  our  intention  to  pass  the  night 
in  the  heart  of  them,  rather  in  the  foothills,  giving 
up  the  next  day  to  peaks  and  fastnesses. 

I  should  have  enjoyed  stopping  over  in  St. 
Johnsbury.  The  hotel  was  new  and  shining,  but 
it  was  not  yet  dusk  and  habit  was  too  strong 
for  us.  Besides,  the  Illustrator  was  impressed 


THK    OLD    TOWN    OF    ST.    JOHNSIH'HY 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

by  the  placarded  appeal  Bethlehem  was  making 
to  us  from  every  fence  rail.  It  was  brief  and 
unvarying,  and  to  my  mind  not  stimulating,  for 
its  continual  boast  was :  "  Bethlehem — Thirty 
Hotels." 

I  pointed  out  to  him  that  we  could  spend  the 
night  in  but  one  of  the  hotels  anyway,  but  he 
had  visions  of  driving  slowly  through  the  town 
before  we  made  our  choice,  with  all  the  porters 
of  all  the  Thirty  running  out  to  meet  us,  and 
twenty-nine  of  them  being  disappointed.  Hotel 
porters  in  America  do  not  run  out  to  wave  you 
into  their  courtyards  as  they  do  in  Europe,  and 
he  had  missed  this  attention.  And  he  figured  if 
we  were  ever  to  receive  it,  it  would  come  to 
us  in  Bethlehem. 

We  strayed  into  a  bakery  in  St.  Johnsbury 
where  coffee  was  served,  and  drank  the  mildly- 
concocted  beverage,  while  the  chauffeur  went 
among  the  shops  to  buy  a  new  shirt.  I  do  not 
know  what  this  boy  did  with  all  the  shirts  he 
bought,  but  he  had  a  way  of  collecting  them  with 
the  same  fervour  that  other  travellers  buy  sou- 
venir postal  cards.  It  is  not  a  bad  idea — this  pur- 
chasing of  raiment  en  route.  For  years  after- 
wards each  day's  equipping  of  himself  can  bring 
to  mind  his  trip. 

"  I  bought  this  shirt  in  St.  Johnsbury,"  he  can 
_-*•  175  -e- 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

say  to  his  wife — for  all  chauffeurs  marry  young. 
Then  he  will  sigh,  and  she  will  be  delicately 
piqued  into  loving  him  the  more  as  she  wonders 
what  dear  association  he  holds  for  the  purple  and 
green  stripes. 

There  was  love  in  the  bakery.  The  young  lady 
who  was  doing  up  the  evening's  bread  for  various 
customers  never  turned  her  face  from  the  street. 
She  found  bread,  paper,  and  twine  with  the  sure- 
ness  of  the  blind,  and  when  criticised  rather  irri- 
tably by  one  dyspectic  old  gentleman,  admitted 
brazenly  that  she  was  watching  for  her  sweet- 
heart. 

"  Didn't  know  you  had  one,"  said  the  dyspeptic, 
laying  down  ten  cents  for  his  gluten  bread. 

"Didn't?"  she  answered.     "Look  at  me." 

We  all  looked  at  her.  She  was  plain,  yet  there 
was  that  about  her  which,  we  knew,  meant  sweet- 
hearting  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  I  did  not 
begrudge  her  this  quality.  It  was  highly  satis- 
factory to  see  a  woman  commanding  attention 
whose  hair  was  not  curly  and  whose  wrinkles  were 

rather  ensnaring  than  otherwise.     Both  W 

and  myself  felt  more  comfortable  over  our  faces 
which  Time  had  already  begun  to  pat  and  paw 
with  firm  if  kindly  fingers. 

We  left  the  bakery,  mentally  at  least,  hand  in 
hand.  As  we  came  to  a  long  hill  which  we  must 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

climb,  we  met  a  young  couple  in  a  roadster  who 
might  have  been  ourselves  ten  years  back — ex- 
cept that  a  smart  bulldog  was  riding  cosily  be- 
tween them.  But  as  we  had  always  wanted  a 
dog,  we  felt  that  the  picture  of  this  pleasant  trio 
was  a  mirroring  of  what  we  would  have  liked  to 
have  been. 

Their  car  was  covered  with  banners,  "  Safety 
First "  being  prominently  displayed,  and  they 
were  living  up  to  this  by  turning  back  to  St. 
Johnsbury  for  the  night  and  leaving  the  steep 
hill  for  broad  daylight.  Our  cars  stopped  by 
mutual  consent.  And  quite  without  preface  we 
talked  together  for  some  time.  They  said  they 
might  see  us  on  the  morrow,  although  we  would 
probably  outstrip  them.  As  we  had  outstripped 
nothing  but  a  steam-roller  so  far,  owing  to  our 
predilection  to  lingering,  we  assured  them  of  an- 
other meeting.  We  parted  without  any  exchange 
of  names  and  this  is  the  true  spirit  of  motoring, 
the  young  couple  scampering  back  over  the 
easiest  road,  our  older  selves  climbing  the  long 
hill,  for  life  has  taught  us  that  we  must  go  for- 
ward. 

We  were  rewarded  by  an  orange  sunset  from 
the  mountain  top,  which  brought  warmth  to  the 
chill  of  our  years,  and  coincident  with  the  dwin- 
dling of  the  day  came  the  lights  in  the  houses  along 
:+ 177  -*-. 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

the  roadside.  We  peeked  in  curiously.  Some  were 
at  supper,  some  weaving  rugs,  a  hand  was  lifted 
to  a  sick  face,  a  baby  in  a  mother's  arms — we 
flashed  by  them.  Ah  life!  a  moving  picture  that 
never  tires,  and  grows  richer  in  interest  as  we 
grow  older. 

Before  Littleton  we  came  suddenly  upon  a  toll 
gate.  We  would  have  passed  it  unwittingly  had 
not  the  pole  been  swung  across  the  road.  A 
young  woman  came  from  out  the  little  lighted 
house.  She  said  she  did  not  as  a  rule  put  down 
the  bar,  she  trusted  to  one's  honour,  but  a  car  had 
just  passed  without  so  much  as  a  howdy-do.  She 
dwelt  a  good  deal  upon  this  breach  of  country 
etiquette,  and  as  she  had  bounced  out  in  time 
to  get  the  number  she  was  about  to  paste  it  up 
on  the  board  for  all  the  world  to  read  their 
shame.  She  was  very  proud  of  this  method  of 
degradation. 

It  was  not  surprising  to  me  that  the  occupant 
of  the  rear  seat  had  been  a  lady  with  a  green 
veil.  Apart  from  the  satisfaction  at  hearing  of 
her  dishonesty,  I  was  full  of  the  fear  that  we 
might  sail  past  her  again,  and  swift  retribution 
follow  in  a  third  accident  to  us. 

Tremulously  we  approached  Littleton,  and 
just  as  we  left  Vermont  and  acquired  New 
Hampshire  our  headlights  picked  out  a  floating 
-j-178-*- 


ADVENTURES  OF  THE  ROAD 

green  veil.  W was  very  bitter.  He  wished 

to  get  to  his  "  Thirty  Hotels  "  before  thick  night. 
To  do  so  he  must  pass  her,  yet  if  he  did  pass  her 
he  would  probably  crack  the  cylinder  and  never 
get  anywhere. 

I  will  say  this  for  the  lady:  she  got  us  out  of 
the  difficulty  herself,  for  her  car  suddenly  took 
a  fork  to  the  right,  and  as  our  course  was  over 
the  other  road  we  left  her  far  behind  without 
arousing  her  malevolence. 

Even  so,  we  had  some  trouble  reaching  the 
'  Thirty  Hotels."  We  had  made  a  wrong  turn 
and  found  it  strangely  difficult  to  get  the  proper 
direction  for  our  destination.  Our  young  driver 
obligingly  descended  to  make  inquiries  at  door- 
steps, but  the  result  was  a  curious  confusion 
both  on  his  part  and  that  of  the  householders. 

At  one  long  parley  W climbed  out  after  him 

— I  heard  murmurs,  ejaculations,  laughter.  The 
Illustrator  returned  to  the  car  in  advance: 

"  Did  you  know  this  boy's  last  place  was  with 
a  Jewish  family?"  he  asked  me. 

"  Well,  what's  that  got  to  do  with  it? " 

"  He's  been  asking  for  Bethelheim." 


.-J-179 


CHAPTER  IX 

Motor  Mountain  Climbing 

OWING  to  our  arrival  at  Bethlehem  under  cover 
of  darkness  there  was  not  the  gratifying  effort 

to  secure  our  patronage  that  W had  counted 

upon. 

But  the  Sinclair  House  atoned  for  it  by  giving 
us  ecstatic  attention  from  the  bell-boys.  They 
denuded  our  car  with  a  tenacity  of  purpose  that 
only  armed  resistance  could  have  withstood. 
They  were  mindful  that  twenty-nine  other  hotels 
were  ready  to  receive  us,  even  if  the  porters, 
and  waiters,  and  guests  were  not  out  in  the  road 
making  fin-like  movements  with  their  hands  to- 
ward their  wide  porticoes. 

They  even  pulled  from  the  receptacle  which 
the  top  (being  down)  formed  the  old  shirts  and 
the  whiskey  bottle  and  that  of  hair  tonic.  They 
marched  upstairs  with  the  chauffeur's  new  shirt, 
neatly  done  up  in  a  package,  and  had  to  be 
marched  down  again  with  it.  Before  I  could  say 
I  didn't  like  the  rooms  (which  I  did,  but  one  has 
a  formula  while  travelling)  the  bags  were  un- 
strapped, and  my  dinner  gown  was  popping 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

enticingly  out.  More  wonderful  than  all  this, 
they  did  not  linger  about  for  tips,  but  disappeared 
as  soon  as  their  work  was  done. 

Only  the  captain  remained — to  assist  me,  I 
should  judge,  in  dressing.  He  told  me  that  he 
went  South  to  work  in  winter  and  to  school  in  the 
spring  and  autumn — he  had  a  stepmother  and 
was  fond  of  her.  And  all  the  time  he  was  fixing 
shades,  and  turning  on  lights  and  seeing  if  we 
had  sufficient  stationery.  Upon  reflection  I  put 
it  down  that  he  was  the  most  complete  bell-boy 
I  have  ever  met  although,  curiously  enough,  lack- 
ing an  ear. 

When  the  Illustrator  upbraided  me  for  my 
sudden  friendship  with  him,  I  argued  that  as  our 
stay  in  Bethlehem  was  short,  I  could  not  find 
out  about  the  ear  without  compressing  the  right 
of  several  years'  acquaintance  into  fifteen  min- 
utes. Even  so,  I  never  discovered  how  the  acci- 
dent occurred,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  told 
him  of  our  losing  a  tire  early  in  the  day.  This 
was  in  the  hope  of  delicately  leading  up  to  that 
member  of  which  he  had  been  so  unfortunately 
bereft.  I  might  have  learned  had  not  a  waitress 
arrived  with  the  news  that  they  were  keeping  the 
dining-room  doors  open  for  us,  and  this  new  at- 
tention so  touched  me  that  I  bowed  the  complete 
bell-boy  out  of  my  life  forever. 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

The  head  waiter  was  taking  his  evening  meal 
when  we  gained  the  dining-room,  sitting  in  a  far 
corner  with  his  napkin  carefully  spread  over  his 
shirt  front.  His  kind  is  so  majestic  when  he  is 
in  action,  so  supercilious,  so  gravely  critical  of 
any  breach  of  table  etiquette,  that  it  was  rather  a 
pleasure  to  find  him  humbly  trying  to  make  his 
dress  shirt  last  another  day. 

I  never  could  see  just  what  started  this  hid- 
eously dignified  air  of  those  who  serve  us  in  life 
— just  how  it  began,  in  the  first  place.  It  must 
be  that  they  ape  a  manner  popularly  supposed 
to  belong  to  their  superiors.  Yet  what  caused 
the  first  butler  in  the  world  to  adopt  a  frozen 
dignity.  Whom  did  he  emulate?  And  why — oh 
why  are  we  willing  to  pay  more  for  this  joyless, 
mummified  type  than  for  those  who  serve  in- 
terestedly, and  who  are  not  above  laughing  at 
our  best  jokes? 

Certainly  it  cannot  be  that  they  have  borrowed 
their  grand  manner  from  those  upon  whom  they 
wait,  for  it  is  an  optimistic  and  relieving  thought 
that  those  who  are  grandest  in  the  social  scale 
have  the  least  manner.  It  is  only  the  great  who 
can  afford  to  be  simple.  Therefore  we  saw  the 
head  waiter,  eating  wheat  cakes  with  his  napkin 
tucked  under  his  chin,  in  his  finest  moments. 

His  assistant  served  him,  a  young  woman  in 
r*- 182  -*- 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

white,  with  no  enthusiasm  for  her  job,  and  when 
he  had  finished  she  sat  down  and  was  served,  in 
turn,  by  an  ordinary  waitress — in  black.  She  was 
not  so  indifferent,  for  she  was  of  that  age  when 
the  woman  higher  up  commands  a  deep  admira- 
tion. She  called  attention  to  her  hair  which  she 
had  dressed  after  the  style  of  the  head  waitress 
who,  I  thought,  was  rather  languid  about  it.  I 
asked  our  handmaiden  what  girls  served  those 
in  black  when  it  came  their  turn,  and  she  said  the 
kitchen  maids,  and  when  I  asked  who  served  the 
kitchen  maids  she  replied,  scornfully,  that  nobody 
did.  So  one  infers  that  the  scullions  are  on  the 
lowest  rung  of  the  social  ladder  in  hotels,  and  do 
not  eat  at  all. 

I  fear  it  is  the  contrariness  of  my  nature  that 
occasions  me  to  cover  all  the  pages  allotted  to 
Bethlehem  with  the  doings  of  the  servants'  hall. 
Here  we  were  in  the  White  Mountains,  a  locality 
that,  from  my  earliest  recollection,  stood  for  all 
that  was  elegant  in  the  world  of  fashion,  yet  I 
could  find  nothing  of  interest  in  the  guests,  and 
very  little  in  the  village  of  hotels.  We  walked 
about  the  streets  before  going  to  bed,  almost 
alone  in  this  mild  pursuit  of  pleasure.  The 
houses  were  glaring  with  lights,  and  discords  from 
a  medley  of  orchestras  smote  the  ear;  through 
the  windows  we  could  see  couples  limping  back- 
-+183+- 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

ward  and  forward  in  the  employment  of  a  dance- 
step  which  must  be  a  severe  strain  on  the  ten- 
dons. In  a  gymnasium  the  "  lame  duck  "  would 
be  considered  far  too  fatiguing  for  steady  exer- 
cise. 

As  we  gained  the  steps  of  our  own  hostelry  hid- 
eous screams  from  the  main  parlour  filled  us  with 
dread — a  dread  that  we  must  hear,  if  not  see,  a 
visiting  Elocutionist  giving  an  imitation  of  Rich- 
ard Mansfield  as  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde.  It 
was  Mr.  Hyde  going  on  at  the  time,  wallowing 
on  the  carpet  and  eating  the  body  Brussels  roses. 
It  was  a  long  while  before  the  gentler  and  quieter 
personality  of  Dr.  Jekyll  overcame  the  wallower. 
There  was  peace  for  a  moment  when  the  Doctor 
gained  the  ascendency. 

Through  all  this  babble  the  stars  remained 
shining  in  the  sky.  Nothing  frightened  them. 
But  if  stars  think,  they  must  marvel  that  this 
little  town,  named  years  ago  by  pious  settlers, 
could  so  lose  its  beautiful  significance. 

I  am  guiltily  mindful  that  the  history  of  my 
country  was  greatly  neglected  in  the  last  chapter, 
and  that  I  shall  have  few,  if  any,  dates  sprinkled 
through  this  one.  W ,  who  is  fond  of  moun- 
tains, and  would  not  exchange  a  foothill  for  the 
finest  date  in  history  (even  1066  or  1492),  argued 
gladly  that  we  were  too  far  north  for  any  of  our 
-J-184-J- 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

wars,  and  that  we  had  best  abandon  ourselves  to 
peaks. 

The  morning  dawned  splendidly  for  the  aban- 
donment, and  we  got  away  in  excellent  time  con- 
sidering the  hampering  of  the  cohort  of  bell-boys 
who  slung  everything  on  wrong.  They  were 
alert,  however,  as  every  one  was,  and  we  put  it 
down  to  mountain  air,  for  we  were  feeling  very 
elastic  ourselves  and  bounced  around  in  the  car 
like  rubber  balls. 

We  took  a  turn  to  the  right  at  McKenna's 
Store  for  the  Profile  House,  turning  again  to  the 
right  when  we  reached  the  main  road.  The  high- 
way was  not  without  its  sign-post,  but  this  sign 
brought  a  lump  in  my  throat  for  an  instant. 

W ,  pointing  to  it,  asked  if  I  wanted  to  go 

there,  and  I  said  "  no,"  but  I  think  if  I  had  been 
told  that  I  should  never  see  "  New  York  "  again 
the  lump  would  have  come  to  stay.  Recently, 
while  travelling  across  our  Continent,  I  chanced 
to  glance  from  the  window  of  the  Pullman,  and 
my  eyes  fell  upon  a  sign-post  quite  as  thrilling. 
The  new  Lincoln  Highway  was  under  construc- 
tion, and  at  this  point  in  the  desert,  sticking  up 
from  the  sand,  were  two  hands,  and  one  pointed 
to  the  West  and  the  other  to  the  East.  "  San 
Francisco — New  York — Half-way  "  read  this 
message  in  the  desert. 

-j-185-*- 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

We  were  immediately  in  the  mountains  when 
we  turned  toward  the  Profile  House,  mountains 
which  we  have  endeavoured  to  garnish  by  fine 
roads  and  civilise  by  great  hotels.  But  a  moun- 
tain is  uncompromising.  One  can  wreathe  it  in 
garlands  like  a  Roman  Emperor  and  it  will  not 
lose  its  grimness.  I  am  rather  in  awe  of  these 
great  creatures,  and  I  marvel  that  so  many  silly 
people  can  spend  the  summer  among  their  heights 
and  not  grow  uncomfortable. 

It  is  said,  however,  that  the  rocky  profile  of 
the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  is  scaling  off  a  bit. 
Possibly  its  steady  contemplation  of  the  world 
is  effecting  a  gentle  softening  toward  mankind. 
He  knows  that  all  of  us  men  and  women,  wrig- 
gling down  below,  are  made  of  meaner  clay,  and 
he  may  appreciate  that  it  is  not  so  easy  to  be  good 
and  resolute  when  our  hearts  are  not  of  flint. 

The  motorist  could  not  very  well  miss  seeing 
this  great  rock,  but,  for  fear  one  should,  an  enter- 
prising arrow  marks  the  best  view  along  the  road 
by  pointing  heavenward.  After  this  one  might 
expect  other  arrows  designating  the  moon,  the 
sun,  or  the  Dipper.  A  number  of  automobilists 
were  looking  at  the  Profile  as  solemnly  as  were 
we.  There  is  little  to  be  said  about  a  great 
freak  of  nature,  although  one  young  woman  who 
had  brought  her  opera  glasses  bridged  the  chasm 
-j-186-e- 


,.  .    ..  .    , 

^^        ''j'fsf*  •'••'•'-'''•'•  ^ 

%  3i 


CRAWKOHI)    NOTCH 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

between  almighty  nature  and  nature  simply  hu- 
man by  remarking  the  resemblance  of  the  Profile 
to  "Grandpa." 

Many  of  these  automobiles  continued  south 
through  Franconia  Notch,  and  we  would  have 
spent  more  time  in  this  district  but  that  our 
itinerary  forbade  too  much  lingering.  We  re- 
traced our  path  with  the  idea  of  the  Bretton 
Woods  for  luncheon.  For  a  distance  we  were 
not  out  of  the  woods,  pine  and  birch  wove  their 
branches  above  us,  and  if  one  can  find  any  fault 
with  this  wonderfully-laid  track  through  the 
great  forests,  it  is  that  the  way  is  too  enclosed  for 
extended  views. 

The  roads  were  magnificent,  some  of  the  turns 
made  with  "  banked  curves  "  for  fast  going,  like 
a  motor  race  track.  Which  is  all  very  well  for 
one  who  is  driving  rapidly,  but  causes  the  car 
of  milder  pace  to  fear  that  it  may  topple  over. 
Much  of  this  land  is  preserved  forestry  which 
Uncle  Sam,  like  a  good  housewife,  has  husbanded 
(granting  that  Uncle  Sam  can  be  a  housewife, 
and,  if  a  housewife,  can  husband)  for  an  indefi- 
nite future.  Along  the  way  boxes  of  tools  are 
ready  for  the  dreaded  fires,  and  foresters  in 
khaki  with  the  best  of  motor-cycles  were  scouting 
along  the  road.  The  Illustrator's  recollection  of 
the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  was  completely; 
-J- 187  -*- 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

obliterated  in  his  anxiety  to  remember  whether 
he  did  or  did  not  blow  out  "  that  match." 

At  Twin  Mountain  House  we  came  into  the 
open  once  more,  meeting  a  railroad  which  was 
obsequiously  shrinking  across  our  path.  Time 
was  when  the  railway  crossed  the  road  in  an  ag- 
gressive manner,  other  vehicles  were  interlopers, 
but  in  this  paradise  for  automobiles  it  is  distinctly 
second.  We  look  upon  a  train  in  disapproval 
when  it  holds  us  up,  and  are  inclined  to  show 
surprise  if  any  other  heads  than  pumpkins  peer 
out  from  the  windows.  When  motor  trucks  begin 
to  carry  freight  the  fast  express  will  pass  away 
from  shame. 

The  golf  course  at  this  point  is  traversed  both 
by  the  road  and  the  tracks.  It  is  known  as  a 

splendid  "  hazard,"  and  as  W 's  nose  was 

nearly  hit  by  a  dying  ball  I  think  it  well  named. 
The  ending  of  the  story  is  excellent,  however,  as 
I  caught  the  ball,  and  it  is  now  in  my  handker- 
chief case  in  the  trunk.  My  dishonesty  very 
nearly  severed  the  friendship  between  the  Illus- 
trator and  myself.  I  still  claim  that  it  was  not 
altogether  from  a  sense  of  sportsmanship  which 
occasioned  his  protest,  as  his  principal  argument 
was  that  he  might  some  day  meet  the  owner  of 
the  ball. 

It  recalls  an  incident  of  a  protesting  modern 
.-*- 188  -*-, 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

mother.  "  Don't  you  know  it  is  immoral  to  drive 
alone  in  the  park  with  a  gentleman,"  one  of  this 
species  recently  said  to  her  daughter.  !<  What 
if  there  should  be  an  accident ! " 

It  was  unfortunate  to  engage  in  any  marital 
bickering  with  the  whole  Presidential  Range 
looking  down  upon  us.  We  should  have  been 
feeling  loftier,  and  hitching  our  wagon  to  a  star, 
or,  at  least,  to  Mount  Washington.  I  told  this 

to  W and  he  said  you  could  only  get  there 

by  donkeys.  But  his  mood  softened,  and  we 
both  melted  as  we  passed  the  big  hotel  known 
as  Fabyan's.  For  in  front  of  the  hotel  was  the 
little  roadster  of  the  young  couple  who  went  back 
to  St.  Johnsbury  in  the  last  chapter,  and  who, 
with  the  confidence  of  the  young,  had  said  they 
would  surely  see  us  on  the  morrow. 

They  were  evidently  at  luncheon,  but  the  dog- 
gie was  in  the  car,  guarding  it  with  shining  teeth, 
which  nature,  not  a  bad  disposition,  had  forced 
it  to  show  continually.  Mindful  of  their  complete 
harmony  we  grew  friendly  again,  for  we  were 
not  going  to  be  outdone  by  a  young  couple  in  a 
small  roadster.  And  we  wavered  uncertainly 
before  we  decided  to  go  on  to  the  Mount  Pleasant 
House.  The  Illustrator,  who  has  kept  up  the 
understanding  of  youth,  feared  to  intrude  upon 
their  happy  intimacy.  When  we  grow  older  we 
-t-189-*- 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

are  ready — alas,  eager — to  give  more  generously 
of  ourselves.  All  this  to  explain  to  the  young 
couple,  should  they  chance  to  read  our  book,  why 
we  didn't  meet  them  again.  Perhaps  on  the  mor- 
row— or  the  morrow — or  the  morrow? 

At  the  Mount  Pleasant  you  not  only  register 
for  lunch,  but  you  pay  for  it  in  advance.  If  you 
chance  to  choke  on  an  olive  pit  before  the  soup 
and  die  on  the  spot,  your  estate  would  get  no 
refund.  As  this  was  probably  the  most  conserva- 
tive of  the  hotels  we  visited,  it  speaks  poorly  for 
the  honesty  of  the  best  people.  But,  to  return  to 
a  more  optimistic  point  of  view,  it  is  pleasant  to 
reflect  that  one  receives  at  the  best  places  the 
best  attention,  the  best  food,  and  the  best  quar- 
ters. And  I  should  have  very  little  to  say  about 
the  dishonesty  of  the  best  people  when  a  golf 
ball  was  rolling  around  in  my  handbag.  Perhaps 
it  is  my  best  plea  for  being  of  the  "  best." 

We  were  careful  with  our  olives  and  completed 
an  excellent  meal.  I  asked  the  waitress  all  about 
herself,  and  was  told  very  nearly  All.  She  was 
from  Maine  and  stayed  "  to  home  "  in  the  winter. 
She  was  niggardly  with  forks,  but  generous  as  to 
knives,  and  this  may  have  been  the  result  of 
Maine  influences. 

She  told  me  also  that  many  of  the  good-looking 
waitresses  whom  we  had  seen  throughout  this  part 
-j- 190  -*- 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

of  the  country  were  shopgirls  from  Boston,  who 
gave  up  their  work  in  the  summer  to  accept  a 
humbler  but  more  healthful  profession.  It  is 
the  most  intelligent  action  I  have  ever  known  a 
shopgirl  to  adopt,  and  I  fear  it  is  because  they 
come  from  Boston  that  they  show  this  breadth 
of  mind.  I  have  inquired  since — and  been 
snubbed  for  my  pains — but  I  have  never  heard 
of  a  New  York  clerk  following  such  a  course 
when  the  thermometer  mounts  to  the  nineties  in 
a  hall  bedroom — and  stays  there. 

Mellowed  by  food,  we  talked  at  table  of  linger- 
ing in  the  White  Mountains.  From  our  window, 
across  the  wide,  treeless  plateau,  the  Presidential 
Range  was  beckoning  us.  It  seemed  absurd  to 
be  covering  this  entire  district  in  a  day,  but  as 
W-  —  pointed  out,  we  couldn't  see  it  all  if  we 
stayed  forever,  and  as  we  were  singularly  healthy 
and  richly  poor  it  would  be  foolish  to  remain  for 
a  holiday. 

While  this  most  famous  of  our  mountain  play- 
grounds was  all  one  could  wish,  it  was  in  no  way 
as  I  had  imaged  it,  and  I  was  particularly  dis- 
appointed in  the  Presidential  Range.  It  was 
even  more  imposing,  and  much  whiter,  than  I 
had  expected  it  to  be,  but  it  was  on  the  wrong 
side  the  scenery.  All  my  life  I  had  planned  to 
come  up  from  the  South  and  find  these  "  most 

-j-191  -*- 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

grave  and  reverend  seigneurs  "  on  my  right,  and 
here  they  were  stolidly  on  the  left. 

I  spoke  about  it  to  the  girl  who  helped  me  on 
with  my  coat,  and  she  was  inclined  to  blame  the 
hotel  for  my  confusion.  She  said  if  the  hotel  had 
been  built  on  the  other  side  the  Range,  then  the 
mountains  would  have  been  on  my  right.  I  ad- 
mitted this,  but  sought  to  straighten  out  the 
tangle  that  the  position  of  the  hotel  had  occasioned 
by  asking  which  way  it  faced.  As  a  rule,  attend- 
ants have  no  idea  how  a  single  room  in  their 
hotels  faces — they  are  entirely  devoid  of  a  sense 
of  direction.  A  bell-boy  recently  insisted  that 
our  north  rooms  gave  on  the  south  for  the  reason 
that  the  sun  shone  on  the  windows  of  the  house 
opposite  all  day,  and  the  glow  was  reflected  into 
the  windows  of  our  suite. 

This  girl  was  very  glib.  She  said  the  hotel 
faced  the  west.  This  was  utterly  impossible  with 
a  brilliant  afternoon  sunshine  pouring  down  on 
the  back  of  the  hotel,  but  she  would  not  give  in. 
She  said  she  knew  it  was  the  west,  for  when 
she  was  in  school  her  right  hand  always  pointed  to 
the  east  and  the  left  to  the  west. 

"  But  how  were  you  facing? "  I  asked  craftily. 

"  I  was  facing  the  teacher,"  she  replied. 

Baffled,  we  drove  on,  stopping  at  the  little 
church  which  lies  between  the  two  great  hotels,  a 
-*- 192  -*- 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

memorial  for  some  one  whose  spirit  must  have 
been  as  lofty  as  the  surroundings.  While  this 
district  is  known  as  Bretton  Woods,  we  were 
not  in  the  forests  again  until  we  passed  the  Craw- 
ford House,  and  entered  Crawford  Notch.  We 
then  moved  through  the  most  lovely  glades,  the 
road  roofed  with  green  so  delicate  in  colour  that 
it  would  seem  spring  was  clutching  its  privileges 
to  the  exclusion  of  summer.  A  stream  which 
surely  must  have  been  known  as  Boulder  Brook 
was  our  inconstant  companion,  flirting  off  into 
the  woods  and  coquetting  into  our  presence  again 
when  we  least  expected  it. 

With  a  fine  artistic  appreciation  even  the  signs 
were  made  of  rough  bark.  "  Caution!  "  was  hung 
on  trees  like  Orlando's  eulogies  of  his  fair  Rosa- 
lind. This  word  of  warning  was  probably  meant 
for  the  pedestrians  as  opposed  to  the  swift  motor, 
but  it  served  a  double  purpose,  for  one  "  Cau- 
tion ! "  fell  on  our  heads  as  we  passed  under  it, 
nearly  guillotining  the  Illustrator. 

There  were  evidences  in  the  upheaval  of  rock 
along  the  way  that  the  motor  had  other  dangers 
to  contend  against.  At  one  point  on  this  route 
an  unhappy  family,  by  the  name  of  Willey,  were 
entirely  wiped  out  by  an  avalanche.  Of  course 
we  missed  the  point,  but  as  it  happened  a  century 
ago  and  the  Willeys  would  all  be  dead  by  this 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

time  anyway,  I  felt  no  particular  grief  over  their 
rocky  end. 

They,  at  least,  have  insinuated  themselves  into 
history  by  their  annihilation.  Their  demise  is 
recorded  in  all  American  guidebooks,  but,  to  my 
delight,  the  English  gentleman  who  compiled  the 
Baedeker  slipped  in  and  out  of  the  White 
Mountains  without  ever  hearing  of  the  Willeys. 
They  do  not  get  a  word,  although  we  learned  that 
"  black  flies  and  mosquitoes  are  somewhat  trouble- 
some in  June." 

It  is  interesting  to  note  in  guidebooks  compiled 
for  the  foreign  visitor  how  much  space  is  given 
to  the  welfare  and  equipment  of  the  pedestrian. 
It  recalls  to  mind  the  many  climbers  we  have 
met  in  the  mountains  of  Europe,  yet  we  have 
no  recollection  of  a  single  walking  party  through- 
out our  New  England  trip.  If  we  haven't  rail- 
road fare  in  America  we  stay  at  home — and  save 
until  we  can  buy  a  motor. 

With  a  hundred  excursions  behind  us  to  do 
some  other  day,  we  ran  out  of  the  woods  at 
Bemis,  and  entered  into  the  workaday  world  once 
more.  There  were  few  houses  and  no  farms  until 
we  reached  Bartlett.  Even  then  there  was  little 
suggestion  of  a  populated  district  save,  inversely, 
by  the  reappearance  of  those  small  pathetic  grave- 
yards which  we  frequently  passed  in  New  Eng- 
-*•  194  -t- 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

land.  It  is  not  so  much  life  that  gives  a  settled 
air  to  a  community.  Rather  the  small  gleaming 
headstones  that  bespeak  life's  complement:  death. 

At  Bartlett  we  stopped  for  gasoline,  and  to 
talk  routes  and  distances.  We  would  have  to 
turn  off  at  Glen  if  we  wished  to  circle  the  Presi- 
dential Range,  probably  making  Gorham  for  the 
night,  or  we  could  cut  more  swiftly  out  of  the 
mountains  and  go  on  to  North  Conway.  We 
were  entirely  willing  to  adopt  either  plan,  and  we 
could  not  make  up  our  minds  before  we  reached 
the  point  where  we  must  turn  north  for  Gorham, 
or  continue  straight  on  for  North  Conway.  We 
did  not  make  up  our  minds  then,  for  the  chauffeur 
was  driving,  and  as  he  had  no  idea  where  he  was 
going  anyway,  and  didn't  much  care,  he  clung 
to  the  main  road  from  habit,  and  this  settled  the 
matter  for  us  very  comfortably.  If  it  is  the  broad 
road  that  leadeth  to  destruction,  every  chauffeur 
is  instinctively  bad. 

In  a  short  time,  long  before  dusk,  we  were  in 
a  pretty  village  looking  for  the  Kearsage  Hotel. 
We  scoured  the  wide  street  for  it — we  turned 
back — we  asked  ignorant  little  girls,  one  of  them 
contending  that  the  Kearsage  was  a  vessel.  We 
grew  rather  cross  about  it,  and  drew  up  at  last 
before  the  oldest  inhabitant.  We  told  him  be- 
fore he  had  time  to  speak  that,  as  we  were  asking 
.-*- 195  -e- 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

for  the  best  hotel  in  North  Conway,  we  saw  no 
reason  why  the  inhabitants  should  so  demean  our 
choice  as  to  know  nothing  of  it.  There  was  no 
doubt  that  we  were  piqued  out  of  vanity.  This 
selecting  of  an  inconsequential  hotel  discredited 
our  taste. 

The  oldest  inhabitant,  with  the  deliberation  of 
all  realistic  actors,  took  a  chew  of  tobacco,  and 
said  we  could  look  all  night  and  we'd  never  find 
it  there. 

"And  why  not?"  I  asked  severely. 

"  'Cause  this  town's  Intervale." 

It  was  dusk  when  we  arrived  at  North  Conway 
and  were  embraced  by  the  friendly  arms  of  the 
Kearsage.  Yet  it  was  not  thick  dusk.  We 
could  still  see — it  took  some  walking — the  gleam- 
ing stone  on  the  mountainside  that  was  called  the 
White  Horse.  The  most  remarkable  thing  about 
this  stone  is  that  it  looks  like  a  white  horse.  I 
have  always  had  small  patience  with  the  astron- 
omers who  find  extraordinary  animals  in  the 
heavens,  and  marvel  at  less  imaginative  people 
because  they  can't  see  them.  "  How  plain  the 
Great  Bear  is  to-night,"  they  will  say,  leaving 
us  to  pass  over  the  subject  hastily  and  concentrate 
on  the  obvious  Milky  Way.  The  White  Horse 
is  to  the  mountains  what  the  Milky  Way  is  to 
the  sky,  and  I  cannot  imagine  why,  in  this  district 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

of  great  hotels,  there  is  not  a  single  White  Horse 
Tavern. 

The  village  street  was  very  pleasant  at  dusk. 
We  wandered  into  a  shop  almost  entirely  aban- 
doned to  postal  cards  and  bought  White  Horses 
largely.  The  pictures  were  of  unusual  merit, 
and  when  I  commented  upon  this  to  the  young 
woman  in  attendance  she  told  me  they  were 
copied  from  the  collection  of  her  father's  photo- 
graphs. "  His  health  failed — we  had  to  have  a 
trained  nurse — I  didn't  know  what  to  do — that 
was  a  long  time  ago  when  illustrated  postal 
cards  were  just  coming  in — I  made  a  few  and 
they  sold — now  I  turn  out  thousands  and  it  keeps 
us  comfortably." 

I  thought  it  was  the  best  brief  I  had  ever 
heard  read  for  postal  cards.  We  bought  quan- 
tities, and  a  little  bow  and  arrow  as  well.  The 
bow  and  arrow  were  sent  to  a  small  boy  who 
had  hurt  his  foot.  I  don't  know  why  I  should 
choose  this  active  form  of  exercise  for  a  boy  so — 
handicapped,  can  one  say?  It  seems  that  he  has 
punctured  almost  everything  in  his  room,  includ- 
ing his  mother,  and  she  has  written  me  a  very 
sharp  letter  about  my  selection  of  the  gift. 

I  put  it  down  to  the  influence  of  the  nice  young 
woman  who  had  the  invalid  father.  I  went  out 
of  her  shop  leaving  behind  my  handbag  contain- 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

ing  my  money  and  jewellery  in  the  most  unwordly 
fashion.  Later  I  not  only  acquired  it,  but  a  large 
photograph  of  Cathedral  Walk.  The  Walk  leads 
out  of  North  Conway,  and  when  I  return  I  am 
going  to  take  it,  delighting  Mr.  Baedeker,  for 
the  young  lady  said :  "  It  is  so  beautiful  that  it 
is  just  like  going  to  church,  and  not  having  to 
hear  anything." 

I  often  wonder  what  the  villagers  did  before 
these  towns  were  given  over  to  visitors.  I  sup- 
pose the  money  they  bring  makes  the  natives 
put  up  with  all  sorts  of  dull  types.  We  sat  at 
table  that  night  with  two  of  the  dull  ones — I 
don't  know  what  they  called  us.  We  bowed 
to  them  as  they  took  their  seats,  for  it  is  disagree- 
able to  break  bread  in  a  silence  that  cannot  be 
equally  broken.  But  they  were  not  accustomed 
to  the  foreign  fashion  and  stared  unbelievingly, 
so  that  we  all  ended  by  keeping  our  eyes  fixed 
on  our  food  for  fear  there  might  be  the  inter- 
change of  a  glance.  It  was  a  good  way  to  kill 
the  flavour  of  a  good  dinner. 

Such  encounters  have  an  advantage:  they  ren- 
der the  steady  company  of  the  Illustrator  more 
delectable.  And  he,  in  turn,  let  himself  down 
by  my  side  for  his  after-dinner  cigar  with  a  sigh 
of  relief.  I  know  it  was  his  reflection  that  if  I 
hadn't  firmly  seized  him  when  I  did  that  very 


MOTOR  MOUNTAIN  CLIMBING 

woman  with  the  horror  of  bowing  at  table  might 
have  carried  him  off,  and  he  would,  by  this  time, 
be  that  terrible  man  who  accompanied  her,  and 
who  would  not  speak  to  us. 

A  Russian  orchestra  played — all  one  family, 
but,  instrumentally,  a  happy  one.  And  we  were 
equally  happy  in  North  Conway. 


199 


CHAPTER  X 

Lost  in  the  Maine  Woods 

I  WAS  awakened  the  next  morning  by  a  noise 
of  stiff  paper.  I  had  been  dreaming  that  my 
ears  were  full  of  the  din  of  battle,  a  battle  which 
I  was  running  away  from  as  rapidly  as  heavy 
dream-legs  would  permit.  So  it  was  a  relief  to  me 
to  find  that  it  was  only  the  Illustrator  joyfully 
crackling  his  new  map  of  Lower  Maine  and  the 
Maritime  Provinces. 

The  reader  may  remember  that  our  parapher- 
nalia mentioned  in  the  first  chapter  included  two 
golf  bags.  We  had  carried  them  with  the  idea 
of  stopping  over  wherever  the  golfing  was  good 
and  taking  a  day  or  two  off  from  automobiling. 
But  we  had  not  stopped.  We  were  consumed, 
as  time  went  on,  with  an  ever-increasing  desire 
to  motor  and  do  nothing  else.  It  was  not  with 
the  intention  of  getting  it  over  with  that  we 
swept  through  the  country;  rather,  a  complete 
capitulation  to  that  quality  one  might  coin  as 
automobilism. 

I  still  claim  that  it  is  a  better  attribute  than 
militarism,  which  possesses  Europe  at  present, 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

although  my  mother  has  written  me  a  letter  or 
two  regarding  the  value  of  homeism  and  workism, 
and  saving-your-moneyism,  as  opposed  to  this 
glorious  motoring  obsession. 

It  was  not  entirely  the  fun  of  seeing  "  the 
wheels  go  round  "  that  kept  us  moving.  Going 
over  the  same  motor  track  each  day  might  be 
exhilarating  (and  at  first  we  felt  happiness  in 
mere  swift  motion),  but  the  eye  and  mind  would 
certainly  lack  stimulus.  Whereas  part  of  the 
tour  now  was  the  daily  anticipation  of  new  scenes 
and  new  people,  and  this  was  the  reason  that 

W ,  although  he  loved  mountains,  was  waking 

me  up  with  the  map  of  Lower  Maine  and  the 
Maritime  Provinces.  We  were  not  going  to  the 
Maritime  Provinces,  but  the  words  smell  of  the 
sea.  Indeed,  I  thought  I  smelled  the  sea  already, 
for  I  knew  it  would  be  ours  by  nightfall, 
and  called  in  to  the  Illustrator  to  ask  if  he  no- 
ticed it.  He  called  back  that  he  didn't,  that  it 
was  rain  on  the  window-pane  I  was  sniffing, 
but  he  thought  we  had  better  go  on  just  the 
same. 

Miserably  for  me  the  rain  slackened  as  we 
were  about  to  start,  and  the  chauffeur  appeared 
with  the  canopy  folded  up.  He  would  not  look 

me  in  the  face  nor  would  W ,  and  when  it 

began  to  patter  gently  down  again  as  soon  as  we 
-t-201-*- 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

were  under  way,  both  of  them  pretended  that 
there  was  no  back  seat  at  all. 

I  put  up  my  umbrella,  completely  shutting  out 
the  view,  and  since  I  might  as  well  have  been  at 
church  for  any  enjoyment  of  the  landscape,  I 
gave  myself  up  to  some  of  the  things  one  thinks 
about  during  the  sermon — and  planned  my  winter 
clothes. 

In  this  way  they  made  the  wrong  turn  before 
we  had  gone  many,  if  any,  miles.  I  had  just  time 
to  peer  out,  a  sense  of  direction  permeating  my 
silk  umbrella,  and  cry:  "  This  is  not  the  road  to 
Fryeburg,"  as  they  motored  to  the  right.  But 
the  chauffeur,  who  was  driving,  insisted  that  a 

sign-post  claimed  it  was  the  road,  and  as  W 

said  he  didn't  want  to  go  to  Fryeburg  anyway, 
I  retired  under  my  shield  again. 

I  was  not  going  to  get  rained  on  trying  to 
prove  to  the  Illustrator  that,  no  matter  whether 
he  liked  Fryeburg  or  not,  he  would  have  to  go 
there  if  he  wanted  to  reach  Poland  Spring.  I  did 
not  even  ask  that  he  take  out  the  map  and  have 
a  look  at  it.  One  of  the  bitterest  commentaries 
on  the  Illustrator's  attitude  toward  me  and  to- 
ward his  maps  is  the  way  he  won't  take  them 
out  on  bad  days  for  fear  they'll  get  wet! 

I  went  back  under  my  umbrella,  and  in  fifteen 
minutes  we  were  in  a  charming  wilderness  of 
-+  202  -»- 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

balsam  woods  ploughing  through  a  narrow  way 

of  Maine  sand,  with  W feebly  commenting 

on  the  poor  quality  of  the  "  highway "  as  soon 
as  we  got  out  of  New  Hampshire.  He  said  he 
had  always  heard  the  roads  in  Maine  were  bad. 
But  he  would  not  catch  my  eye,  although  I 
leaned  over  and  described  circles  in  the  effort  to 
catch  his.  I  had  closed  my  umbrella,  for  it  was 
worth  while  getting  wet  to  accomplish  this,  but 
the  Lord  was  on  my  side,  for  it  stopped  raining 
anyway. 

We  asked  a  woman  who  was  driving  a  grocery 
wagon  if  this  was  the  Portland  Road,  and  she 
replied  that  she  really  didn't  know.  One  would 
think  that  a  driver  of  a  delivery  wagon  would 
learn  something  about  roads  and  I  muttered 
words  to  this  effect,  but  she  answered  that  she 
didn't  deliver  out  of  the  Conways — that  was  far 
enough  for  her — so  one  mustn't  expect  wide 
knowledge  from  a  creature  so  ambitionless. 
Americans  admit  their  ignorance,  anyway,  and 
there  is  an  element  of  greatness  in  that.  In  the 
Latin  countries  the  travellers  of  the  road  will 
never  fail  to  direct  you  some  way,  although  it 
may  be  wrong.  It  is  a  matter  of  pride  with  them 
to  know  everything. 

We  rocked  on  until  we  reached  a  choice  of  four 
lanes  with  a  sign-post  in  the  centre  pointing  to  a 
r+  203  +-. 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

number  of  destinations  which  we  had  no  desire 
to  reach.  We  sat  there  very  comfortably,  the 
balsams  blessing  us  with  their  odours,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  admit  that  I  was  enjoying  our  plunge 
into  the  Maine  backwoods.  Another  wagon 
finally  came  along,  the  driver,  who  was  an  in- 
telligent gentleman,  jerking  his  thumb  in  the 
direction  from  which  he  had  just  come,  as  though 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  meeting  an  automobile  there 
daily,  and  sending  it  back  to  the  route  from 
which  we  had  strayed. 

When  he  had  arrived  within  speaking  distance, 
he  told  us  that  we  wanted  to  go  to  Hiram,  and 
while  I  didn't  want  to  go  to  Hiram  any  more 
than  the  Illustrator  didn't  want  to  go  to  Frye- 
burg,  I  refrained  from  confusing  the  man  by 
telling  him  so.  In  fact,  the  Illustrator  was 
rather  ready  to  go  to  Fryeburg  now,  and  asked 
for  it  hurriedly,  in  a  small  voice,  hoping  that  I 
wouldn't  hear  him.  But  the  man  said  we,  on 
the  minor  route,  were  now  beyond  Fryeburg  on 
the  highway,  and  the  best  thing  for  us  to  do  was 
to  go  to  Hiram,  which  would  bring  us  into  the 
Portland  Road  further  along.  He  added,  in  part- 
ing, that  it  was  like  a  triangle  and  we  had  "  sim- 
ply "  taken  two  sides  of  it  instead  of  one. 

He  was  a  kind  man,  and  it  would  not  be 

decent  to  call  him  untruthful,  although  W 

-+•204-*- 


insinuated  that  he  was  after  we  had  cut  through 
ten  miles  or  more  of  forestry  "  describing "  not 
only  two  sides,  but  every  side  of  a  triangle,  and 
every  side  of  every  kind  of  a  triangle.  I  did  not 
know  what  to  call  them  until  I  looked  them  up  in 
my  dictionary,  there  to  find  that,  while  our  geo- 
metrical designs  were  not  limited  to  this  figure, 
we  described  an  equilateral  triangle,  several 
isosceles,  four  obtuse-angled  triangles,  and  one 
undoubted  scalene. 

It  was  at  the  apex  of  the  scalene  that  we  came 
across  the  ruins  of  a  farmhouse,  and,  although  it 
had  been  burned  down  long  ago,  our  car  instinc- 
tively stopped  to  ask  the  way  to  Hiram.  Be- 
fore we  had  time  to  bid  our  faithful  friend  go 
on  again  an  old  man  emerged  from  the  ruins,  and 
we  forgot  all  about  asking  the  road  in  our  eager- 
ness to  find  out  about  the  fire.  He  was  not  de- 
pressed over  his  loss,  as  was  our  acquaintance  of 
the  Green  Mountains.  I  do  not  know  whether 
his  mother-in-law  burned  up  in  it,  but  he  had 
insured  it  two  days  before  the  conflagration,  and 
had  built  a  much  better  one  further  on  with  the 
proceeds.  A  solitary  cook-stove,  seemingly  un- 
harmed, was  all  that  was  left  of  the  furnishings. 
He  pointed  to  it  and  chuckled:  "  See  that  stove — 
never  would  burn."  A  very  chipper  old  gentle- 
man! 

-»-  205-»- 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

There  were  many  delightful  farmhouses  along 
this  untravelled  way,  pleasant  in  outline  but  un- 
painted  from  the  day  of  their  birth.  Since  paint 
is  a  preservative,  it  is  difficult  to  figure  why  the 
man  who  fences  his  fields,  weeds  his  garden,  and 
hoes  his  corn  does  not  apply  some  of  that  in- 
dustry to  anything  as  essential  as  his  rooftree. 
I  asked  the  chauffeur  (for  we  had  all  grown 
friendly  again,  owing  to  the  loveliness  of  the 
sweet  woods)  how  much  it  cost  to  paint  a  farm- 
house, and  he  said  several  thousand  dollars. 
W-  -  challenged  this,  and  the  boy  argued  back 
that  it  cost  fifty  dollars  to  paint  a  small  motor- 
car, and  as  the  area  of  a  farmhouse  was 
larger 

This  boy  has  no  instrument  of  comparison  ex- 
cept an  automobile.  The  Illustrator,  who  was 
hurt  that  I  had  not  asked  him  how  much  it  cost 
to  paint  a  farmhouse,  explained  that  one  does 
not  use  the  same  paint  on  a  house  as  on  a  car, 
and  decided  that  it  would  cost  twenty-five  dol- 
lars to  paint  one  of  these  buildings  if  you  hired 
a  man,  and  four  dollars  if  you  did  it  yourself. 

I  don't  know  how  he  came  by  these  figures, 
but  it  was  so  within  my  means  that  I  suggested 
buying  one  of  the  places  along  the  sandy  track 
and  having  the  four-dollar  job  done.  But 
W ,  appreciating  that  he  would  undoubtedly 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

be  the  one  chosen  to  paint  the  house,  since  I 
counted  on  the  smaller  sum,  thought  it  would  be 
a  mistake,  for  we  might  never  be  able  to  find  the 
estate  again  if  we  left  it  for  a  moment.  And 
as  this  was  so  unusually  intelligent  I  gave  up 
the  idea,  concentrating  once  more  on  Hiram. 

We  saw  a  small  store,  although  there  was  no 
reason  for  its  being,  as  there  was  no  one  around 
to  buy  anything,  with  the  name  of  Ole  Johnson 
over  the  door,  and  we  quieted  the  motor,  that 
our  voices  might  be  lifted  in  a  sort  of  yodelling 
trio  as  we  called,  "  Ole,  Ole,  Ole,  Ooh! " 

He  turned  out  to  be  a  pretty  girl,  who  asked  us 
flatly  why  we  wanted  Hiram  when  Fryeburg  was 
just  up  the  road.  And  we  concealed  our  as- 
tonishment that  we  were  anywhere  near  this  mys- 
terious town,  the  Illustrator  gallantly  admitting 
that  she  was  right,  and  swallowing  his  hatred  for 
the  hamlet  in  order  to  make  some  small  advance. 
We  passed  through  Fryeburg  one  hour  and  a 
half  later  than  we  need  have  if  the  canopy  had 
been  up  so  that  I  could  have  directed  them  as  to 
the  route.  But  I  did  not  say  this,  and  as  a 

token  of  appreciation  for  my  forbearance  W 

stopped  at  Denmark  to  let  me  attend  a  green- 
corn  husking  bee. 

It  was  not  a  merry  affair  with  young  boys  pur- 
suing pretty  girls.  Fifty  men  and  women  were 
-j-207-*- 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

squatting  in  the  sunshine  before  a  cannery,  toss- 
ing the  husked  ears  into  individual  baskets  of 
which  a  record  was  kept  by  an  overseer.  They 
received  five  cents  a  basket,  some  of  them  mak- 
ing two  dollars  and  fifty  cents  a  day,  so  I  can 
leave  you  to  work  out  the  number  of  baskets  they 
filled  daily.  I  asked  one  of  those  employed  what 
they  did  with  the  corn,  and  she  said  she  didn't 
know.  There  seemed  to  be  no  excuse  for  this 
ignorance  except  that  many  of  the  buskers  had 
come  from  a  distance;  the  explanation  of  the 
overseer  implying  that  those  not  closely  related 
to  the  town  of  Denmark  suffered  from  a  lack  of 
mental  development. 

I  went  through  the  building  with  the  wife  of 
the  proprietor,  as  he  did  not  appear  at  all.  The 
process  was  accomplished  with  little  use  of  human 
hands  and  that  but  to  watch  the  machinery. 
There  may  be  fingers  in  many  a  pie,  but  there 
are  no  fingers  in  canned  corn  and  I  have  been 
eating  it  all  winter  with  enthusiasm.  The  wife 
knew  every  cog  of  the  machinery  and  of  the  busi- 
ness. She  was  of  those  capable  women  whom  one 
meets  throughout  the  villages  of  the  United 
States,  with  a  cultivation  of  mind  that  causes  one 
to  bless  anew  "  Cadmus,  the  Phoenicians,  or  who- 
ever it  was  that  invented  books." 

While   I   was   interested  in   corn  she   was  in- 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

terested  in  the  latest  publication.  She  spoke  of 
Galsworthy,  Anatole  France,  the  while  she  gave 
me  statistics  as  to  the  number  of  tins  sealed  in 
an  hour.  When  I  told  her  that,  hitherto,  our 
travel  stories  had  been  only  of  Europe  she 
stopped  leading  me  about  and  looked  out  of  a 
window  that  gave  upon  the  village  street,  up  the 
road  to  the  fir  trees  and  the  strips  of  sand. 

"  Europe — Italy — the  Riviera — the  Black  For- 
est. I  have  never  seen  them."  She  turned  to 
me.  '  What  can  you  write  of  in  New  England? 
What  can  you  write  of  to-day?  But  then,  of 
course,  you  are  going  to  Poland  Spring."  I 
told  her  that  I  should  write  of  something  much 
more  interesting  than  the  guests  at  Poland 
Spring,  but  she  was  too  modest  to  understand  me. 

There  was  another  effort  as  we  neared  Naples 
to  turn  us  from  the  straight  road,  and  force  us 
into  a  circuitous  route  around  Lake  Sebago. 
A  freshly-painted  sign-post  named  every  desti- 
nation one  would  be  likely  to  want  within  a  day's 
run,  but  we  had  developed  caution  as  the  sun 
reached  its  meridian,  and  asked  a  passing  driver 
what  all  these  signs,  obviously  pointing  us  away 
from  the  main  road,  could  mean.  It  was  un- 
fortunate that  we  chose  a  man  with  a  skittish 
horse,  but  I  held  the  bridle  while  he  restrained  it 
from  an  inclination  to  eat  me  as  he  explained 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

that  the  signs  were  "  kind  of  a  blind."  Various 
innkeepers  put  them  up  to  get  the  motorist  to 
go  by  their  hotels. 

'Tain't  right,"  he  admitted,  but  he  said  worse 
things  than  that  happened  in  Maine.  Some  of 
the  very  best  residents  of  the  country  dug  up 
reliable  sign-posts  and  used  'em  to  hold  up  clothes 
lines.  Surely  enough,  a  little  further  on  we  found 
one  holding  up  a  choice  array  of  lingerie  in 
a  back  yard,  with  a  majestic  finger  bearing  the 
inscription  "  Copley  Plaza  Hotel,  Boston,"  point- 
ing to  a  beehive. 

Naples  was  so  named  because  it  was  on  the 
water.  It  bore  no  other  resemblance  to  that 
pink  city  which  one  is  bidden  to  see  and  die.  The 
water  was  one  of  a  series  of  little  lakes  which  we 
were  now  continually  passing.  They  were  lovely, 
clear  lakes  with  islands  planted  neatly  in  the 
centre  of  each,  producing  the  effect  of  toy  Japa- 
nese gardens,  such  as  we  receive  for  Christmas 
gifts.  Summer  cottages  and  campers  besprinkled 
the  shores,  and  there  was  an  air  of  festivity  about 
that  invested  even  the  roadway. 

It  particularly  invested  it  at  one  point  where 
the  way  was  narrow,  for  we  encountered  a  merry- 
go-round  in  transit,  an  implacable  caravan  that 
refused  to  share  the  road,  so  that  we  were  the 
ones  who  had  to  "  go  'round  "  by  crawling  into 
r«-  210  .-+-;• 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

the  ditch,  and  were  not  at  all  merry  about  it. 
The  driver  was  grim  of  visage,  endeavouring  to 
preserve  his  dignity,  for  he  was  sitting  in  a  fish, 
while  his  helper,  a  very  homely  man,  was  glower- 
ing at  us  from  a  sort  of  bower  of  roses.  Ah, 
well!  Business  had  been  bad  perhaps.  Although 
the  "  new  thought "  books  argue  along  different 
lines,  there  is  no  reason  why  it  should  be  amus- 
ing to  furnish  amusement  to  a  frivolous 
public. 

We  left  the  direct  Portland  Road  at  Naples, 
taking  two  sides  of  a  triangle  again,  that  we  might 
lunch  at  Poland  Spring,  although  an  enterprising 
shopkeeper,  who  wished  to  sell  us  hats  when  we 
arrived  at  Portland,  continued  with  his  milestones 
and  exhortations  all  along  our  way.  My  spirits 
rose  with  the  natural  elevation  of  the  land  as  we 
approached  this  famous  Source,  reaching  a  climax 
in  a  burst  of  song  which  no  one  heard,  but  it  is 
a  fashion  of  mine  to  sing  when  I  am  happy  in 
the  back  seat. 

There  was  a  reason  for  my  delight.  Poland 
Spring  had  ever  been  definitely  visaged  in  my 
mind  as  a  place  in  a  flat  wood,  far  too  low,  and 
thickly  grown  with  brush.  The  hotel  was  painted 
a  dark  green  with  cream  trimmings,  little  damp 
walks  led  to  small  basins  where  water  trickled 
into  muddy  pools.  I  fancy  this  was  the  result  of 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

my  first  "  cure  "  in  an  undeveloped  Indiana  re- 
sort thirty — yes,  alas — thirty  years  ago,  but  I  am 
glad  that  it  was  so  gloomy  in  my  imagination, 
for  nothing  could  have  been  more  surprising  than 
the  sudden  gaining  of  the  high  plateau.  There 
I  found  myself  amidst  the  best  kept  lawns  in 
America,  with  three  gleaming  hotels  scattered 
about  the  great  open  space,  and  fine  roads  in- 
vitingly leading  us  to  each  one  of  them. 

Vulgarians  by  nature,  we  chose  the  largest,  so 
large  that  one  cannot  imagine  where  any  other 
Americans  spend  the  summer  when  this  one  is 
"  full  up."  The  clerk  assured  us  that  it  was 
always  "  full  up  "  and  we  could  not  stay  the  night 
if  we  wished,  but  he  was  not  supercilious  about  it. 
Like  all  able  creatures  he  was  modest,  though  he 
could  well  have  been  proud,  for  his  intellectual 
development  extended  to  the  reading  of  a  guest's 
name  upside  down  on  the  register. 

"  Lunch,  Mr.  Hale? "  he  asked  as  soon  as  the 
signature  was  completed,  leaving  the  Illustrator 
titillated  with  the  possibility  that  he  might  not 
have  read  the  name,  but  have  recognised  him  from 
Sunday  newspaper  cuts.  As  we  were  not  taking 
rooms  we  could  not  discover  if  he  possessed  that 
other  coveted  gift  of  writing  numbers  upside 
down,  although,  no  doubt,  that  lay  within  his 
grasp  as  well. 


«*:./! 


iSifBl^^^^4!'11" 

J^U£~'J|ir  Sp?r  >W   <  •    "I  '' ''' 

^P^v'JS'^S^W^HB^I"  '  ^ 
*jC'r'  !«•  r^fJi«  C'iftC  Cfl  '  v%^ 


POLAND    SriU\(i 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

We  once  encountered  in  a  small  hotel  out  West 
a  clerk  with  this  attainment,  but  he  was  not  a 
pleasant  man.  There  were  deep  grooves  in  the 
desk  which  he  had  made  by  raking  his  finger  nails 
into  the  wood  after  each  guest  had  registered, 
which  occasioned  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  fearing 
we  had  unwittingly  strayed  into  an  ogre's  den. 
I  remember  asking  him  if  he  was  sure  we  could 
get  our  laundry  by  the  next  day.  "  Nothing  is 
sure,  lady,  but  death,"  he  replied,  raking  terribly. 
We  did  not  stay  overnight  in  that  hotel. 

It  was  hard  to  decide  which  was  better  at 
luncheon:  the  food  or  the  views.  There  were 
gentle  hills,  lakes,  streams  and  farmlands 
stretched  out  as  extensively  as  the  menu,  and  as  I 
complacently  ate  I  decided  that  this  rolling  coun- 
try was  better  suited  to  my  mild  nature  than  the 
majesty  of  mountains. 

The  golfers  played  almost  up  to  the  verandas.  I 
never  knew  anything  tamer  than  the  balls  unless 
it  was  the  squirrels.  We  walked  over  to  the 
shrine  built  about  the  only  and  original  Poland 
Spring  with  the  squirrels  taking  every  liberty  with 
us.  One  even  scampered  up  my  gown  to  my  hat, 
running  around  the  top  of  it  madly  under  the  im- 
pression that  it  was  the  wheel  in  a  cage.  Every 
one  was  amused  at  this  but  myself. 

"  It  wants  you  to  give  it  a  nut,"  explained  an 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

old  gentleman  with  a  squirrel  sticking  out  of  his 
pocket  as  he  was  about  to  address  a  ball  with  a 
brassie.  "  They're  very  fond  of  filberts."  He 
looked  at  me  reproachfully  as  I  made  no  effort 
to  take  a  filbert  out  of  my  hair  or  produce  it  by 
some  other  act  of  magic,  and  the  squirrel  tore 
around  my  motor  bonnet  more  wildly  than  ever. 
And  while  I  like  animals,  I  was  exasperated  at 
the  squirrel,  feeling  that  it  should  keep  in  its 
place,  and  I  asked  the  golfer  where  did  he  expect 
me  to  get  a  filbert? 

He  avoided  answering  by  making  a  very  good 
brassie  shot,  at  least  good  enough  to  take  him 
far  away  from  me,  which  was  a  relief  to  us  both, 
the  squirrel  ending  the  complication  by  leaping 
from  my  hat  to  a  tree,  carrying  with  him  a  por- 
tion of  my  hair  net. 

Nevertheless  I  was  mortified  at  not  having  a 
filbert,  and  I  think  guidebooks  should  speak  of 
the  wisdom  of  investing  in  this  commodity  be- 
fore leaving  for  Poland  Spring.  The  depression 
might  have  continued  had  it  not  been  dispelled 
by  the  necktie  of  the  attendant  who  offers  one  a 
drink  of  water  from  the  original  source  if  one 
wants  it. 

It  was  a  silk  tie  with  a  Gibson  girl  painted  on 
it.  The  top  of  her  pompadour  came  just  below 
the  knot,  her  face  and  shoulders  were  neatly 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

spread  out  after  the  fashion  of  four-in-hands, 
and  her  right  eye  was  squarely  punctured  by 

a  ruby  scarf  pin.  W says  no  European 

spring  is  half  as  beautifully  encased  as  is  this 
one  and  I  must  take  his  word  for  it — I  saw 
nothing  but  the  necktie.  I  hope  the  boy  will 
wear  it  forever  and  make  thousands  of  tired  busi- 
ness men  happy. 

We  went  on  to  the  bottling  works  nearby. 
It  was  not  an  exciting  process,  the  bottles  slipping 
along  in  a  little  groove,  getting  themselves  filled 
and  corked  without  effort,  and  going  off  to  New 
York  to  be  sold  for  a  sum  quite  out  of  propor- 
tion to  the  ease  by  which  the  thing  was  seemingly 
accomplished.  But  we  do  not  pay  for  the  water 
alone.  We  pay,  and  everlastingly  should,  for  the 
brain  of  the  first  Ricker  who  owned  this  Spring 
and  who  decided  to  cork  it  up  as  a  commercial 
enterprise.  I  stared  at  the  long  line  of  sliding 
green  bottles.  If  a  Jones  had  had  this  farm  in 
1797,  or  an  Ames,  perhaps,  or — surely — a  Hale, 
to  this  day  the  cows  might  have  been  standing  in 
the  little  stream  its  narrow  trickle  would  have 
made,  snoozling  up  through  their  nostrils  the 
present  dividends  of  a  vast  corporation. 

We  did  not  visit  the  other  buildings  on  this 
four  thousand  acres  of  estate.  Everything  is 
here  that  one  could  possibly  want,  even,  I  am  told, 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

to  some  of  my  books  in  the  library!  Everything, 
at  least,  but  the  sea,  and  as  we  wanted  the  sea 
most  urgently  we  sent  out  an  S.  O.  S.  call  for  our 
automobile.  And  in  an  instant,  by  some  mysteri- 
ous process,  it  came  rattling  out  of  the  bejewelled 
garage  and  we  were  on  our  way.  But  we  looked 
back  regretfully,  for  this  of  its  kind  is  a  finer 
flower  than  the  older  countries  of  Europe  have  to 
offer. 

In  spite  of  the  Call  of  the  Sea  we  stopped, 
soon  after  quitting  the  park,  at  a  large  stone 
building  so  forbidding  that  it  tempted  us,  like 
the  apple,  to  inquire  of  it.  We  learned  that  it  is 
now  but  the  dairy  house  for  the  big  hotels,  but 
that  it  had  once  belonged  to  the  Shaker  Settle- 
ment. This  elicited  further  inquiries,  and  a  little 
"  more  far,"  as  the  French  say,  we  espied  a  neat 
old  lady  sewing  at  a  window.  She  was  so  extraor- 
dinarily placid  and  so  sternly  bonneted  that  we 
knew  we  were  at  the  Shaker  house  for  the  women. 
More  than  that,  goods  were  announced  for  sale, 
and  glad  of  an  excuse  for  meeting  a  Shaker  lady, 
I  went  in  to  see  the  wares. 

She  of  the  window  met  me  at  the  door,  and 
took  me  into  the  shop.  I  was  impressed  by  her 
simplicity,  and  I  was  almost  afraid  that  I  might 
take  advantage  of  her  while  acquiring  a  few 
souvenirs.  I  was  afraid  she  might  want  to  give 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

them  to  me  and  that  I  would  be  obliged  to  force 
the  money  upon  her. 

But  she  was  a  remarkable  old  lady,  her  sober 
habit  but  the  cloak  to  as  keen  a  trading  instinct 
as  one  finds  at  the  Rag  Fair  in  Rome.  She  did 
not  heed  my  modest  demands  at  first.  She  began 
with  the  most  expensive  articles,  working  down 
toward  my  price  with  a  certain  restrained  con- 
tempt that  made  me  a  little  sick  at  her  worldli- 
ness.  I  wanted  to  ask  her  if  she  had  ever  heard 
of  the  McCreery  Stores,  and  of  the  printed  notice 
given  to  each  clerk  that  the  smallest  buyer  is  as 
valuable  to  the  shop,  and  as  welcome,  as  the  most 
reckless  purchaser.  New  York  and  its  ways 
were  quite  simple  to  me  after  my  encounter  with 
that  old  lady,  and  I  went  away  carrying  my  few 
acquisitions — mentally  at  least — between  the 
thumb  and  forefinger. 

I  was  glad  to  be  going  on  to  Portland,  where 
(I  am  told),  with  Providence  and  some  other 
New  England  cities,  there  are  schools  of  etiquette 
for  clerks,  and  courteous  methods  are  rehearsed 
for  dealing  with  discourteous  shoppers.  I  sat 
back  relieved  to  find,  after  I  had  admitted  it, 
that  I  was  as  glad  to  be  approaching  a  city  as  I 
was  to  be  nearing  the  sea. 

We  whizzed  past  generous  farms,  through  little 
hamlets,  circumvented  ox-carts,  with  an  eye  eager 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

for  the  first  glimpse  of  a  trolley  car  coming  out 
from  Portland.  And  when  we  saw  it  speeding 
through  the  country  with  tired  farmers'  wives 
carrying  early  autumn  hats  in  paper  bags,  we  fol- 
lowed up  the  track  with  the  same  enthusiasm  that 
Hop-o'-My-Thumb's  parents  must  have  trailed  the 
bread  crumbs.  For  the  pursuit  of  the  city  is  as 
stimulating  as  the  chase  for  Maine  deer  in  the 
open  season. 

It  is  worthy  of  comment  that  we  arrived  before 
dusk,  and  by  some  confusion  of  trolley  lines  found 
Longfellow's  home  before  we  met  the  harbor. 
The  Illustrator  insisted  that  this  was  the  Long- 
fellow home,  and,  being  substantiated  by  the 
passerby,  emptied  himself  out  of  the  car  to  make 
a  sketch. 

As  Portland  is  a  historic  town,  no  one  is 
alarmed  when  an  artist  takes  to  drawing  in  its 
busiest  thoroughfare,  although  there  is  the  usual 
comment  from  the  street  as  to  the  excellence  of 
the  work.  This  freedom  of  expression  is  limited 
to  no  one  country,  but  is  less  humiliating  in  for- 
eign parts  as  it  is  done  in  a  tongue  fairly 
unfamiliar  to  us. 

While  I  was  proud  of  W 's  sketch,  I  was 

embarrassed  at  finding  his  subject  the  real  Long- 
fellow residence.  In  a  previous  visit  I  had  picked 
out  another  house  as  his,  and  pointed  it  out  to 
-+•  218  -*- 


***** 


THK    LOXr.FKM.OW    HOME.    PORTLAND 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

strangers  who  were  as  ignorant  as  I.  The  one 
of  my  choice  stands  in  the  little  open  place  where 
his  statue  is  erected.  The  chauffeur  and  I  drove 
past  there  as  we  endeavoured  to  choose  a  hotel, 
and  I  still  like  it,  and  wish  he  had  lived  there. 
It  is  at  the  end  of  the  most  delightful  street  in  the 
world,  where  the  shade  trees  are  not  limited  to  a 
noble  row  on  either  side,  but  extend  themselves 
to  two  rows,  and  conspire  to  form  the  nave  and 
side  aisles  of  a  cathedral  which  one  can  motor  up 
and  down  without  disturbing  the  service. 

In  fact,  the  chauffeur  spent  so  much  time 
motoring  up  and  down  it,  turning  and  re-turning 
in  the  wide  street  (turning  without  drilling  is 
the  chauffeur's  delight),  that  we  arrived  at  the 
Lafayette  Hotel  too  late  for  any  rooms  save 
those  next  to  the  elevator,  and,  all  of  a  sudden, 
my  joy  was  turned  to  bitterness.  The  car  was 
sent  after  the  patient  Illustrator,  and  I  gloomily 
unpacked  with  every  evidence  of  a  boiler  factory 
going  up  and  down  one  wall.  When  our  effects 
were  disposed  for  the  night,  and  I  was  just  saying 
I  must  make  the  best  of  it,  I  went  out  into  the 
hall,  quite  without  my  own  volition,  and  screamed 
out  that  I  couldn't. 

As  a  reward  for  my  lack  of  self-control,  a 
sympathetic  bell-boy  heard  me,  and  we  two 
scouted  about  the  halls,  going  up  and  down  steps, 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

and  trying  doors,  until  we  marked  a  party  leaving 
rooms  in  a  far,  quiet  corner.  By  a  certain  ex- 
change of  silver  for  keys  the  rooms  were  mine, 
and  attendants,  carrying  dinner  dresses,  and 
pumps,  and  toothbrushes,  and  yawning  hand- 
bags, moved  me  into  them.  Even  then  I  forgot 
the  soap,  but  had  it  by  the  time  W arrived. 

I  was  paid  for  my  efforts  by  the  way  he  sank 
into  a  wicker  chair,  exhausted  by  the  criticisms 
of  his  drawing  of  the  Longfellow  house,  and, 
lying  back  comfortably,  remarked  that  some  body, 
not  a  hotel,  had  furnished  the  room.  I  had  been 
thinking  the  same  thing,  and  marvelling  that  with 
all  the  guests  going  in  and  out  daily  there  was 
still  a  pervading  sense  of  some  one  individual. 

Long  ago  a  fire  had  burned  on  the  wide  hearth, 
marks  showed  against  the  wall  the  traces  of  book- 
shelves once  affixed  there,  a  bracket  for  a  plant 
was  empty  by  the  window,  and  a  fixture  from 
which  a  bird-cage  must  have  hung  was  still  sus- 
pended over  the  fresh  curtains.  W gener- 
ously insisted  upon  my  taking  this  room,  and  I  do 
not  think  he  was  uneasy  over  any  gentle  ghost 
that  may  have  been  hovering  about.  Strangely 
enough,  the  adjoining  room,  although  the  same  in 
size  and  furnishings,  carried  with  it  no  delicate 
sensation  of  a  life  so  quick  that  its  glad  vibration 
stirred  a  chord  in  our  own  emotional  hearts. 


LOST  IN  THE  MAINE  WOODS 

We  ate  on  the  roof — how  often  do  I  speak  of 
eating! — green  corn,  horribly,  for  there  is  no 
other  way  of  denuding  the  cob.  But  I  do  not 

look  at  W when  he  is  eating,  and  he  does 

not  look  at  me.  I  look  at  the  other  guests  eating 
corn,  however,  and  hate  them.  Some  go  straight 
around  the  cob,  some  in  a  long  line  from  end  to 
end,  and  some  gnash  in  anywhere.  The  last 
have  no  sense  of  order.  It  was  pleasanter  to  look 
out  over  the  city  and  to  see  the  lights  of  Casco 
Bay.  The  smell  of  the  low  tide  reached  us  even 
on  our  rocky  eyrie.  The  little  steamers  were 
going  to  the  various  islands,  far  beyond  was  open 
water. 

And  yet — we  returned  to  the  window  of  our 
spirit  room,  the  one  that  looked  up  the  quiet 
street  where  the  couples  were  walking.  The 
moon  shone  down  through  the  branches  of  the 
trees — still  it  was  dark  enough  for  couples.  One 
young  man  quarrelled  with  his  young  lady  and 
she  cried.  He  "  made  it  up." 

"  One  might  think  we'd  go  out  on  the  water," 
said  the  Illustrator,  "  now  we've  reached  it." 

But  we  made  no  move.  We  were  at  that  world- 
old  occupation  of  enjoying  humanity,  and  there 
are  no  romances  like  those  of  the  city  streets. 


CHAPTER    XI 

Down  Along  the  Maine  Coast 

IT  WAS  very  foolish  to  be  walking  down  the 
main  street  of  Portland  the  next  morning  admir- 
ing the  arrangement  of  fruit,  flowers,  and  vege- 
tables in  the  shop  windows  when  I  ought  to  have 
been  digging  into  my  guidebook  and  brushing  up 
on  dates. 

We  were  back  on  historic  ground  again,  and 
we  would  continue  on  it  from  that  point  until  we 
were  home.  I  once  dreamed,  after  a  day  of 
delving  into  the  library,  that  we  were  motoring 
over  a  flat  country  devoid  of  beauty,  and  with  no 
characteristics  save  rows  of  date  palms  along  the 
way.  The  palms  were  rich  in  fruit,  if  it  could 
be  called  that,  yet  the  bearing  was  but  a  series 
of  figures  swaying  in  the  wind.  We  passed  every 
date  from  the  reign  of  the  Ptolemies  to  the  blow- 
ing up  of  the  Maine.  It  was  a  most  tiring  trip, 
and  I  determined  that  no  tour  of  mine  in  real  life 
should  be  marred  by  too  great  a  predominance 
of  this  obnoxious  fruit. 

I  take  space  for  the  relating  of  this  nightmare, 
that  I  may  be  pardoned  any  slurring  of  the 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

events  which  stand  out  prominently  in  the  making 
of  our  history,  and,  instead,  speak  more  continu- 
ously of  what  we  saw  in  the  beauty  of  the  country 
and  the  lives  of  those  about  us.  The  dates  will 
be  with  you  forever — but  you  can  take  but  one 
trip  with  the  Illustrator  and  the  humble  (?) 
scribe. 

Ergo:  I  did  some  shopping  in  Portland  (which 
was  founded  in  1632,  was  first  called  Casco  and 
then  Falmouth.  I'll  admit  that  much!),  as  I  in- 
tended to  have  my  shoes  shined.  There  was  a 
bootblack  across  the  street,  but  he  showed  no  dis- 
position to  take  my  money.  He  sat  on  his  own 
high  throne,  strumming  on  a  mandolin  as  he  read 
an  Italian  newspaper  spread  upon  his  knee,  and 
he  was  so  entirely  happy  that  I  did  not  disturb 
him,  for  ten  cents  more  or  less  could  mean  nothing 
to  this  man.  As  a  result  of  this,  I  went  on  down 
the  street  and  very  nearly  bought  some  ostrich 
feathers. 

This  desire  to  shop  when  in  a  small  city,  for 
fear  one  will  not  find  anything  as  good  when  one 
reaches  a  metropolis,  seizes  the  traveller  after 
several  days  in  the  country.  I  felt  as  I  looked 
at  those  feathers  in  the  showcase  that  they  would 
be  the  one  great  bargain  of  my  life,  and  that  I 
would  never  see  anything  like  them  in  New  York. 
I  resisted  the  temptation,  fearing  the  Illustrator, 
-i-223-e- 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

for  they  would  have  to  be  carried  in  a  large  box, 
and  since  then  I  have  seen  many  other  feathers 
not  only  cheaper  but  better,  and  have  bought 
none  of  them. 

I  even  got  away  without  an  air  plant  which 
beckoned  me  from  a  florist's.  It  seemed  folly  not 
to  buy  the  air  plant,  for  it  needed  neither  earth 
nor  water,  and  would  look  very  well  blossoming 

on  top  of  the  typewriter.  But  W came 

along  at  the  psychological  moment  of  my  great- 
est weakness  with  one  of  Portland's  most  promi- 
nent citizens.  The  artist  was  taking  him  up  the 
street  behind  our  hotel  to  show  him  a  most  lovely 
composition  of  an  old  gateway  and  an  older  tree, 
for  the  distinguished  man  was  as  alive  as  we  were 
to  the  charm  of  his  town.  Yet  the  citizen  laughed 
when  he  saw  the  find,  saying  it  was  the  back  yard 
of  Mrs.  Blank's  boarding-house.  But  we  all  three 
thought  it  very  nice  in  art  to  grant  the  good 
compositions  as  freely  to  the  poor  as  to  the 
rich. 

We  saw  the  full  sweep  of  the  bay,  at  last,  as 
we  left  the  city  going  toward  Biddeford,  and,  just 
at  the  city  limits,  guarded  by  a  policeman,  lay  the 
body  of  a  man  who  had  tramped  for  the  last  time. 
I  felt  sorry  that  he  must  die  on  so  glorious  a  day, 
for  surely  no  man  can  better  appreciate  the 
tempered  wind  and  soft  sunshine  than  a  tramp. 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

But  he  lay  very  easily  in  the  lap  of  his  mother: 
Earth. 

We  followed  the  trolley  to  Biddeford,  but  it 
was  not  a  busy  trolley,  and  when  we  reached  the 
town  we  found  most  of  the  mills  shut  down,  with 
the  great  smoke  stacks,  which  we  would  gladly 
have  had  polluting  the  sky,  unfulfilling  their  mis- 
sion. Men  and  women  were  idle  in  the  door- 
ways, and  hanging  out  of  windows.  We  have 
come  upon  evil  days  for  our  mill  people,  although 
I  understand  the  owners  endeavour  to  run  them 
for  half  the  week,  that  the  bodies  of  the  workers 
may  remain  integral  with  their  souls. 

The  blight  appears  to  have  extended  itself  to 
the  trees  of  the  open  country.  At  least  they  have 
a  blight  of  their  own,  and  such  trees  as  have 
been  sprayed  with  arsenic  bear  large  placards  of 
"  POISON,"  doubtless  to  warn  the  educated  New 
England  cows  against  eating  the  leaves.  In  spite 
of  these  calamities  of  town  and  country,  the  places 
were  prosperous  in  appearance,  the  farmhouses 
were  finely  built,  and  fat  oxen  in  the  fields  lent  an 
air  of  solidarity  to  the  scene.  We  were  headed 
for  Kennebunkport,  having  been  told,  en  route, 
that  the  golf  course  was  on  this  side  "  The 
Tombs,"  and  the  town  beyond  them.  In  Maine 
the  cemeteries  are  given  that  terse  name.  It  has 
a  resonance  that  consorts  well  with  these  little 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

patches  of  the  dead  which  lie  along  the  rocky, 
booming  coast. 

We  stopped  at  Kennebunkport  for  old  time's 
sake,  although  the  cottages  of  our  friends  were 
closed,  and  the  hotel  where  we  lunched  was  about 
to  close.  Or  perhaps  I  should  say  that  it  wished 
to  be  about  to  close,  as  the  proprietress  whispered 

to  me  that  as  soon  as  old  Mr.  K left  she 

would  shut  right  up.     We  saw  old  Mr.  K 

puttering  about  happily  with  no  evidence  of  leav- 
ing, and  while  I  did  not  wish  to  distress  the 
proprietress,  I  told  her  of  a  man  I  knew  who  had 
been  invited  to  stay  overnight  at  the  house  of  a 
friend  of  ours,  and  who  lingered  there  for  seven 
years. 

In  spite  of  that  she  gave  us  a  good  luncheon, 

although  I  don't  know  what  Mr.  K received, 

and  we  walked  out  among  the  cottages  after- 
wards to  the  water's  edge.  This  was  our  first 
beach  on  the  tour,  and  several  years  ago  it  was  the 
first  one  that  I  had  ever  visited.  Men  who  write 
come  to  Kennebunkport,  and  I  was  the  guest  of 
one  of  them.  The  sightseeing  buckboards  used 
to  drive  past,  pointing  out  the  author  as  he  sat 
on  the  front  porch.  The  top  of  his  head  would 
get  pink,  then,  and  while  I  sat  up  very  straight, 
trying  to  look  like  the  famous  man's  wife,  the 
real  wife  and  her  illustrious  liege  would  crawl 


around  to  the  kitchen  steps,  there  to  sit  as  the 
next  contingent  went  by. 

The  revisiting  of  a  locality  which  one  associates 
with  friends  when  the  friends  are  absent  is  like 
sitting  before  a  wide  hearth  on  which  no  fire  is 
burning.  We  did  not  feel  the  want  of  acquaint- 
ances in  places  that  were  new  to  us,  but  the  day 
in  Kennebunkport  brought  to  me  most  poignantly 
that  it  is  people,  not  things,  which  make  up  a 
large  part  of  the  world.  And  I  offer  the  old 
thought  as  a  solace  to  those  who  must  stay  at 
home,  yet  are  surrounded  by  men  and  women 
whom  they  know. 

I  spoke  of  this  to  W ,  who  did  not  care 

for  my  log  fire  simile,  preferring  to  liken  my  sen- 
sation of  loss  on  this  beautiful  coast  to  the  con- 
templation of  a  lovely  woman  without  a  heart. 
Since  this  locality  was  unfamiliar  to  him  I 
thought  the  reference  to  the  lady  rather  unneces- 
sary, for  he,  himself,  was  feeling  nothing  but  a 
mild  indignation  that  I  could  remember  so  little 
of  the  route. 

I  could  pick  out  the  way  to  Kennebunk  proper 
only  by  my  recollection  of  a  fine  old  Colonial  house 
on  the  right  which  had  been  over-ornamented  with 
white  encrustations  like  the  icing  on  the  wedding 
cake.  No  traveller  must  or  will  fail  to  observe 
it.  Its  appearance  makes  one  long  for  a  build- 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

ing  committee  to  restrict  extravagances  of  archi- 
tecture both  of  town  and  country.  What  a  tear- 
ing down  of  towers  and  a  removal  of  gingerbread 
porches  there  would  be  if  a  body  of  capable  archi- 
tects were  set  loose  among  the  cottages  built  some 
twenty  years  ago. 

At  my  earnest  solicitation,  we  stopped  at 
Kennebunk  to  inquire  of  a  setter  dog  that  I  had 
found  in  that  vicinity  upon  my  last  visit  there. 
The  famous  novelist  had  refused  to  give  it  house 

room  for  about  the  same  reason  that  W had 

resented  my  annexing  the  golf  ball  back  in  Bret- 
ton  Woods:  he  feared  he  might  some  day  meet 
the  owner.  But  the  dog  was  undoubtedly  lost, 
and,  at  last,  I  bestowed  it  upon  a  very  willing 
Kennebunk  sportsman,  who  declared  the  animal 
perfectly  pointed. 

Upon  inquiring  now,  it  was  no  longer  with 
him.  He  was  sorry  for  this,  and  enlarged  upon 
dogs  that  don't  appreciate  a  good  home.  He 
said  some  people  were  like  that,  just  born  strays, 
run  and  run  through  the  country  till  they  die.  I 
thought  of  the  tramp  back  in  Portland.  And  the 
dog  and  that  tramp  and  ourselves  were  all  curi- 
ously confused  in  my  mind.  The  Illustrator  and 
I  raced  on,  understanding  a  good  deal  the  joy  of 
the  dog's  running,  and  not  finding  the  tramp's 
end  so  very  unlovely  after  all. 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

Before  Ogunquit  we  were  forced  to  make  a 
detour,  and  discovered  an  old  gentleman  in  a 
small  car  stuck  in  a  sandy  pasture,  bleating  pite- 
ously  for  Portland.  "  Is  it  all  sand? "  he  asked, 
under  the  impression  that  Maine  had  no  more 
roads  to  offer.  But  this  detour  was  occasioned 
by  the  process  of  hitching  together  as  good  a  road 
as  one  can  ask  for.  It  ran  now  among  colorful 
moors,  for  we  were  out  of  the  pine  forests,  and 
the  sea  threw  its  spray  among  the  rocks,  like,  as 
our  chauffeur  charmingly  put  it :  "  like  an  atom- 
iser." Studios  with  great  north  skylights  were 
part  of  many  of  the  cottages,  and  maidens  sat 
in  meadows,  braving  the  cows  to  paint  the  cliffs. 
At  one  turn  of  the  road  we  stopped  to  admire 
and  "  register  "  (as  they  say  in  taking  a  moving 
picture)  a  house  and  a  tree  beside  it,  and  the 
sea  beyond  them  both.  That  was  all.  Why  does 
the  heart  go  out  to  some  habitations  and  remain 
so  cold  to  others? 

The  roadbed  grew  so  extraordinarily  good  as 
we  neared  York  Beach  that  the  automobile  associ- 
ation urges  you  to  keep  within  bounds  by  posting 
horrible  warnings  of  swift  motor-cycle  police 
who  lurk  behind  every  heather  bush.  Even  so, 
the  Maine  automobile  travels  with  throttle 
wide  open,  a  conscious  look  upon  the  face  of 
the  taxpayer,  as  though  he  would  say:  "As 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

you  make  your  own  bed,  so  shall  you  ride 
upon  it." 

I  believe  that  the  beach  which  stretched  before 
us  on  our  left  is  the  finest  in  the  world,  just  as 
the  cottages  which  were  on  our  right  are  certainly 
the  meanest,  and  in  no  way  deserve  the  view,  con- 
sidering that  the  ocean  has  to  look  back  at  them. 
Every  name  that  could  be  derived  by  mediocre 
minds  was  given  to  those  shacks,  and  flaunted 
over  the  door,  from  (hospitably)  "  Letumcum " 
to  (modestly)  "  The  Atlantic " — a  very  small 
bungalow. 

In  close  juxtaposition  was  York  Harbor,  a 
summer  place  rich  in  fashion  but  poor  in  interest. 
A  beautiful  woman  with  seventy-five  summer 
gowns  once  told  me  that  the  large  hotels  get  a 
hold  on  you,  and  you  go  back  year  after  year. 
Forewarned  by  this,  we  did  not  stop  at  all,  for  we 
cannot  imagine  any  greater  misery  than  a  large 
hotel  "  getting  a  hold  on  us,"  and,  like  the  setter 
dog,  we  ran  and  ran  toward  Portsmouth. 

It  was  the  Illustrator's  wish  to  visit  the  Navy 
Yard  before  it  was  closed  for  the  day.  It  lies 
at  Kittery  Point,  and  we  were  as  near  to  reaching 
it  on  time  as  we  ever  were  at  getting  anywhere, 
for  the  gun  had  just  fired  for  the  closing  of  the 
shops  as  we  brought  up  before  the  sentry.  Hav- 
ing garnered  our  camera,  we  were  allowed  to 


XKAHINT,    PORTSMOl'TH    HAHBOK 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

motor  among  the  buildings  and  visit  some  of  the 
warships  which  were  in  dry-dock.  It  was  here 
that  General  Cervera  was  pleasantly  imprisoned 
during  the  Spanish- American  war,  and  if  he  had 
the  run  of  the  beautiful  Governor's  house  and  the 
officers'  quarters  scattered  along  the  Point,  I 
think  he  did  well  to  be  captured. 

The  workmen  were  going  off  to  Portsmouth  in 
launches,  a  much  more  festive  fashion  than  electric 
cars,  although  they  were  soberly  reading  news- 
papers and  paying  no  attention  to  the  sunset,  as 
Venetian  laborers  always  seem  to  be  doing.  The 
vessels  in  dry-dock  were  preparing  for  the  even- 
ing meal.  I  asked  one  neat  scullion  who  was 
carrying  pails  of  potato  peelings  to  the  water's 
edge  if  he  preferred  being  ashore  in  this  half-and- 
half  fashion,  and  he  said,  upon  reflection,  that  he 
didn't.  I  was  stirred  by  his  preference  for  the 
high  seas,  but,  after  probings,  learned  that  the 
advantage  of  the  broad  ocean  was  the  pitching 
of  the  potato  peelings  directly  out  the  port 
holes.  "That's  the  worst  of  being  ashore," 
completed  the  tar  gloomily.  "  No  place  to 
throw  things." 

The  Russian  and  Japanese  met  here  daily  until 
the  peace  treaty  was  signed — could  it  be  as  far 
back  as  1905?  A  tablet  on  a  building  commemo- 
rates that  period,  so  gay  for  the  Americans,  so 
-*-  231  -H- 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

gratifying  to  the  Russians,  and  so  bitter  to  the 
silent  little  Orientals,  who,  while  the  victors,  re- 
ceived nothing. 

When  we  reached  the  Rockingham  Hotel  in 
quaint  old  Portsmouth,  we  found  a  disposition  on 
the  part  of  the  young  girl  at  the  newsstand  to 
claim  this  hostelry  as  the  one  which  harboured 
both  factions,  but  I  think  she  was  rather  over- 
zealous  than  undertruthful.  She  was  only  a 
little  girl  then,  she  said,  and  didn't  dream  at  the 
time  that  she  would  ever  be  working  for  her 
living  (so  she  has  her  story,  I  suppose,  but,  the 
Illustrator  poking  me,  I  did  not  pry  into  it). 
She  was  playing  with  her  dolls,  she  remembered, 
when  the  guns  were  fired  that  announced  the 
signing  of  the  treaty,  and  she  had  cried,  for  she 
thought  the  Russians  and  Japanese  were  attack- 
ing us.  "  Not  yet,"  said  W gloomily,  which 

was  unnecessarily  foreboding  at  the  close  of  a 
sunny  day. 

The  traveller  should  spend  some  time  in  this 
only  port  of  New  Hampshire.  Indeed,  the 
traveller  should  do  few  of  the  things  that  we 
do — except  be  happy  and  follow  his  own  incli- 
nation. There  was  much  diplomatic  visiting  at 
Portsmouth  in  early  Colonial  days,  for  New  Eng- 
land was  the  White  Hope  of  the  nation,  and 
great  deference  was  paid  to  the  wishes  of  these 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

northern  states.  Both  Washington  and  Lafa- 
yette visited  Governor  Langdon  in  the  old  house 
still  standing,  our  first  President  writing  of  it  to 
a  friend  as  one  of  the  finest  houses  he  had  ever 
seen.  The  doorways  were  exceedingly  good.  I 
like  to  see  a  lovely  portal.  A  young  writer, 
Ernest  Poole,  has  completely  expressed  it :  "I 
always  like  the  front  door  of  a  house  to  he  wide 
and  low  with  only  a  step  or  two  leading  up.  I 
like  it  to  look  hospitable,  as  though  always  wait- 
ing for  friends  to  come  in." 

It  was  the  moon  that  teased  us  out  of  the 
town  after  we  had  motored  leisurely  through  its 
streets,  and  bought  the  first  chestnuts  of  the 
season,  popping  over  a  glowing  charcoal  fire. 
We  called  this  a  sort  of  wedding  trip,  as  we  had 
been  mistaken  at  one  street  corner  for  a  conscious 
pair  we  had  previously  met.  They  were  in  an 
automobile  labelled  "  Just  Married,"  like  the 
bride  and  groom's  car  away  back  (a  thousand 
years  back  it  seems)  near  Amenia.  The  over- 
eagerness  of  those  hiding  behind  a  building  to 
pelt  them  with  confetti  resulted  in  an  attack  upon 
us.  Yet  the  laugh  was  upon  them,  for,  as  we 
emerged  from  coils  of  colored  paper  ribbon,  they 
found  that  they  had  expended  their  ammunition 
on  a  couple  wearing  an  intense,  long-married  ex- 
pression. And  as  they  profusely  apologised,  the 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

"  Just  Married  "  drove  triumphantly  by,  confetti- 
less. 

Since  it  was  the  moon,  "  the  inconstant  moon," 
that  had  led  them  on,  so  did  it  us  to  Newbury- 
port.  We  liked  the  idea  of  arriving  at  this  old 
town  of  the  musical  name  by  night,  and, 
fortified  by  chestnuts,  we  ran  into  open  country 
again.  It  was  intensely  quiet.  We  were  by  our- 
selves, all  New  England  had  gone  to  supper,  all 
save  a  woman  with  a  full,  rich  voice  who  was  too 
much  in  love  to  eat.  We  had  stopped  to  turn  on 
the  headlights,  and  she  gave  us  the  charming 
benefit  of  her  song  as  she  walked  in  her  garden. 
She  was  as  unconscious  as  the  thrush  in  the  bush, 
but  the  thrush  keeps  its  secrets;  there  were  words 
to  her  cry: 

"  The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  day  but  one, 
Yet  the  light  of  the  whole  world  dies 

With  the  setting  sun. 
The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one, 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 

When  love  is  done." 

We  stood  motionless  until  she  had  finished, 
and  as  she  sang  to  the  end  my  mental  picture  of 
her  changed.  I  could  see  her  not  as  a  young 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

woman.  There  was  a  break  in  her  rich  voice,  now 
and  then,  which  would  suggest  that  the  fingers  of 
time  were  at  her  throat,  making  gentle  indenta- 
tions in  the  flesh,  stealing  her  youngest  notes 
from  their  ivory  casing,  sorry  to  do  it,  perhaps, 
but  intent  upon  its  eternal  remodelling.  Thank 
time,  or  philosophy,  or  whatever  power  it  is,  that 
as  our  body  changes  so  does  the  spirit  within  us. 
One  hopes  that  the  woman  of  middle  age  singing 
in  her  garden  that  night  had  found  this  accommo- 
dating spirit — our  fears,  from  the  yearning  of  her 
song,  that  she  had  not. 

But  New  England  did  not  remain  indoors  for 
long.  The  bells  were  clanging  in  the  villages 
through  which  we  passed,  and  old  folks  were 
going  to  the  weekly  prayer  meeting.  Young 
people,  who  need  it  most,  do  not  go  to  prayer 
meeting,  although  in  my  youth  I  would  go  as 
far  as  the  hitching  post.  Here  was  tied  my 
grandfather's  white  horse,  and  my  companions 
and  myself  would  drive  it,  "  lickety-split,"  about 
the  town  while  my  dear  old  grandparents,  all  un- 
suspicious, prayed  for  the  redemption  of  my  soul. 
The  "  joy  ride  "  did  not  develop  with  the  institu- 
tion of  the  automobile. 

Long  before  we  expected  it,  we  caught  a  line 
of  silver  on  the  horizon  which  betokened  the  port 
of  Newbury.  Little  boats  were  rising  at  rest 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

(only  a  boat  can  ride  and  rest  at  the  same  time) 
and  there  were  big  ones  farther  off  in  the  harbour 
which  evidently  stayed  out  later,  as  grown-ups 
can,  for  they  were  all  "lit  up  " — and  that  means 
a  number  of  things. 

Once  across  the  long  bridge  we  asked  the  way 
to  the  Wolfe  Tavern  of  an  Englishman — judging 
by  his  accent — and  while  his  direction  was  faulty 
we  bore  him  no  ill-will,  for  it  gave  us  the  oppor- 
tunity of  traversing  a  wide,  lovely  street  which  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  Wolfe  Tavern.  The  fine 
Colonial  mansions  were  set  far  back  from  the 
road,  solid  and  substantial.  Even  the  glow  of 
modern  electricity  coming  from  the  windows  shed 
its  rays  with  dignity,  as  an  able  mind  diffuses 
light.  Only  the  creeping  vines  and  the  gardens 
were  invulnerably  soft.  The  first  time  I  saw  the 
Colosseum  in  Rome  was  by  moonlight,  and  while 
it  has  been  awkward  to  do  so,  since  then  I  have 
avoided  that  locality.  So  I  determined  that  I 
would  not  visit  this  street  again;  for  a  fine  im- 
pression, however  vague,  is  too  good  to  be  de- 
stroyed by  analysis. 

W said  after  we  had  covered  the  street 

twice  that  we  would  never  get  off  it,  and  that 
I  would  probably  never  see  anything  else,  even 
if  I  wanted  to.  We  were  too  shy  to  ask  of  the 
Tavern  at  these  great -doorways,  the  chauffeur  de- 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

murring  as  he  feared  the  iron  dogs  might  be  live 
ones.  No  one  was  walking  in  the  streets.  There 
is  a  curfew  law  still  enforced  in  Newburyport, 
yet  it  seems  to  have  terrors  only  for  the  ancient, 
as  we  at  last  overtook  some  boys  who  ought  to 
have  been  in  bed.  At  first  it  was  difficult  to  get 
any  definite  information  owing  to  their  concerted 
desire  to  please,  and  when  we  begged  that 
but  one  speak  at  a  time  there  was  every  prom- 
ise of  a  fist  fight  over  who  should  be  the  first 
one. 

I  sternly  insisted  that,  being  a  lady,  I  should 
be  allowed  to  pick  out  the  dispenser  of  informa- 
tion, and  I  sympathetically  took  the  quietest  boy 
as  a  reward  of  merit.  This  created  intense  de- 
light among  his  companions,  for  I  had  chosen  the 
village  stammerer;  but  by  long  breaths,  and 
pauses,  and  sticking  to  it  the  little  fellow  told  us 
all  that  we  needed  to  know — and  a  good  deal 
more. 

You  cannot  mistake  the  Wolfe  Tavern  if  you 
have  ever  seen  General  Wolfe.  His  likeness 
is  painted  on  the  old  swinging  sign,  but  as  he  died 
on  the  plains  of  Abraham  while  fighting  the 
French,  we  were  better  assisted  by  the  name  of 
the  Tavern  underneath  than  by  any  recognition 
of  his  features.  Like  all  ancient  hotels  it  is  not 
the  original  hotel,  nor  does  it  stand  on  the  corner 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

where  it  stood  during  and  before  revolutionary 
times.  I  do  not  know  why  hotels  wish  to  move 
about  in  this  fashion,  nor  why  they  so  frequently 
get  themselves  burned  up — or  down,  as  you  feel 
optimistically  or  pessimistically.  I  think  they  burn 
up  when  the  insurance  is  good.  It  gives  me  an 
uneasy  sensation  o'  nights  after  creeping  up  delec- 
table old  staircases  to  read  of  the  number  of  times 
the  hostelry  has  been  reconstructed. 

The  present  inn  is  old  enough  for  any  of  us, 
and  means  a  good  deal  to  the  citizens  of  New- 
buryport  as  a  Peabody  once  lived  in  it.  There 
are  two  staircases,  one  early- Victorian  and 
ugly,  belonging  to  Mr.  Peabody,  and  one  Colonial 
and  beautiful,  belonging  to  the  house  next  door, 
for  the  Wolfe  Tavern  has  taken  to  spreading.  I 
insisted  upon  rooms  reached  by  this  spiral  stair- 
case, for  it  curves  so  delicately  that  it  would  seem 
the  way  to  Heaven. 

The  old  darky  porter  who  carried  up  the  bag- 
gage, very  reluctantly  and  pantingly,  did  not 
agree  with  me.  He  confided  in  a  low  voice — that 
the  clerk  might  not  hear  him — that  if  Hell's  his 
portion  when  he  dies  he'll  find  it  upstairs,  not  in 
no  basement.  "  Ancientry  is  all  right,"  he  ex- 
plained when  we  reached  the  roof,  and  he  fumbled 
for  matches  to  light  the  gas,  but  he  had  carried 
trunks  up  and  down  those  stairs  for  twenty-two 


A   DOORWAY,   XTAVIH'RYPORT 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

years  and  before  it  came  his  turn,  "  God  send," 
they'd  have  an  elevator. 

I  fastened  on  to  God  send,  for  here  was  an  old 
English  expression  probably  not  in  usage  outside 
of  Newburyport.  And  I  fastened  on  to  the  old 
darky  also,  for  he  told  me  that  directly  he  got  us 
settled  he  was  going  off  to,  the  hospital,  for  there 
his  son  lay  with  a  broken  leg.  I  immediately  be- 
came an  authority  on  broken  legs,  and  begged 
that  the  limb  of  his  son  did  not  remain  too  long 
in  a  plaster  cast.  I  advised  splints  at  first,  so 
that  it  could  be  watched  from  time  to  time  to  see 
if  it  was  knitting  correctly.  I  gave  an  instance 
of  a  young  man  I  knew  in  England  (I  made  him 
out  an  athlete,  but  he  was  a  poor  thing)  who  had 
worn  a  cast  for  nine  weeks,  and  when  it  was  taken 
off  the  bones  had  not  knitted  properly — and  he 
was  lame  for  life.  As  a  result  of  this  story  the 
negro  went  off  without  bringing  us,  or  any 
other  appealing  bells,  ice  water.  And  I  can 
imagine  my  unpopularity  among  the  hospital 
staff. 

We  dined  late,  wandering  uncertainly  through 
the  carte  du  jour,  attended  by  a  buxom  creature 
who  gave  no  evidence  of  capability  beyond  a  firm 
mouth.  The  best  thing  I  can  remember  either 
about  her  or  the  dinner  were  the  Newburyport 
crackers.  She  recommended  them,  and  whenever 
-*-  239  -*- 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

we  seemed  to  lose  our  spirit  over  the  meal  would 
offer  these  huge  round  wafers  to  us  as  one  applies 
a  poultice  to  a  more  definite  pain. 

W put  down  a  quarter  on  the  table  for  her 

as  we  went  out.  You  can  give  a  boy  a  coin  with- 
out the  slightest  fear  of  his  bursting  into  tears  at 
the  insult,  but  a  waitress,  while  just  as  keen  for 
the  money,  will  frequently  not  deign  to  touch  the 
tip  until  the  guest  has  departed.  I  watched  from 
the  hallway  to  see  if  she  would  not  disregard  it 
altogether  with  a  sort  of  guilty  consciousness  of 
her  own  unworthiness,  but  she  swept  it  up,  along 
with  the  crumbs  fallen  from  the  Newburyport 
cracker,  and  secreted  it  upon  her  person. 

The  port  of  Newbury  needs  a  new  hotel  with 
the  same  clerk,  the  same  porter,  the  same  spiral 
staircase,  and  General  Wolfe  to  look  down  upon 
it.  I  would  like  to  have  it  on  the  identical  spot, 
and  if  it  would  not  be  too  much  to  ask,  to 
have  also  the  same  tree  out  in  front  which 
gently  tapped  upon  my  window-pane  all 
night. 

Yet  it  was  much  quieter  than  the  young  man 
who  occupied  the  room  next  to  mine  on  the  other 
side  of  the  thin,  revolutionary  wall.  He  read  a 
letter  after  he  came  in,  tearing  open  the  envelope 
and  whistling  as  he  did  so.  Then  there  was  si- 
lence. One  rustle  as  he  turned  the  page,  and, 


DOWN  ALONG  THE  MAINE  COAST 

after  he  had  finished,  six  heavy  sighs.  So,  while 
I  did  not  know  All,  I  was  sorry  for  him,  and  it 
was  commendable  that,  in  the  midst  of  whatever 
grief  the  letter  brought,  he  remembered  to  brush 
his  teeth. 


241 


CHAPTER    XII 

The  North  Shore  and  the  Breeches  Bible 

BETWEEN  the  individual  charms  of  the  old  darky 
and  those  of  Newburyport  I  found  the  usual 
difficulty  in  getting  away.  Everything  was  there, 
including  abounding  laughter  occasioned  by  the 
porter. 

I  heard  him  coming  up  the  stairs  the  next 
morning,  jangling  keys  affixed  to  huge  tin  horse- 
shoes, oversize  for  any  pocket.  A  prospective 
guest  was  in  his  wake  looking  at  rooms  for  an 
extended  visit,  and  she  was  twittering  between  a 
choice  of  those  on  the  parlour  floor  and  on  the 
top.  The  porter  paused  on  the  last  step. 
"  Lady,  how  many  trunks  you  got?" 

"Four,"  said  the  lady. 

"  Pahlour  floor's  the  best,"  hastened  the  por- 
ter. And  she  thanked  him  for  his  interest  in  her 
welfare. 

I  asked  him,  later,  what  the  old  town  was  prin- 
cipally noted  for,  and  he  answered  its  Purity 
and  the  landing  here  of  the  Siamese  twins.  He 
added  that  they  were  both  dead,  and  I  do  not 


NORTH  SHORE  AND,  ^REECtfES  BIBLE 

V  *"••*'•  *••'..  ^ 

know  whcuiei  ».  .  ^u  actions, 

Purity  and  the  Siamese,  or  simply  to  the  twins. 

I  was  shocked  that  he  did  not  speak  of  Wash- 
ington and  Lafayette  who  had  slept  in  a  nearby 
mansion,  but  notables  who  were  not  freakish  by 
nature  he  held  in  small  esteem.  Even  the  hotel 
clerk  was  rather  blase  about  these  distinguished 
guests,  opining  that  these  two  gentlemen,  if  one 
could  judge  by  tablets  all  over  the  country,  slept 
more  than  any  other  men  in  history. 

His  Newburyport  favourite  was  Lord  Timothy 
Dexter,  who  was  not  a  lord  at  all,  but  had  longed 
so  ardently  to  be  one  that  the  title  attached  itself 
to  him  by  the  force  of  thought.  He  was  an  eccen- 
tric creature  who,  during  Colonial  days,  lived  in 
one  of  those  great  houses  I  had  seen  by  moonlight 
and  sworn  never  to  see  again.  He  was  a  philoso- 
pher, if  saying  you  are  makes  you  one,  and  wrote 
a  little  book  of  precepts  which  have  no  merit 
whatever  beyond  the  quaintness  of  the  phrasing. 
Once  upon  a  time,  as  a  joke,  he  sent  a  boatload  of 
warming  pans  to  the  West  Indies,  although  I 
don't  know  on  whom  the  joke  was  except  him- 
self for  his  expenditure.  But  the  cargo  was  the 
wisdom  of  a  fool,  for  the  warming  pans  were 
applied  to  ladling  up  cane  sugar,  and  Lord 
Dexter  grew  even  more  rich  by  his  folly. 

All  this  is  very  well  to  talk  about  sitting  on  the 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

front  porch  of  the  Wolfe  Tavern  of  a  late  sum- 
mer's morning.  But,  from  my  own  acquaintance 
with  village  cut-ups,  I  can  imagine  what  a  bore 
he  must  have  been  in  his  day,  and  how  he  found 
our  wide  street  of  the  night  before  as  empty  as 
did  we  when  he  sallied  forth  for  a  promenade. 

He  served,  however,  along  with  the  Siamese 
twins  and  the  porter,  and  the  old  house  across  the 
street  which  Stanford  White  greatly  admired,  to 
bring  the  personal  equation  strongly  into  New- 
bury.  Its  Puritanism  was  nicely  blended  with 
fine  tales  of  privateering,  of  prize  ships  towed 
into  the  harbour,  and,  quite  at  variance  with  these 
attractions,  but  of  especial  interest  to  us  now,  of 
the  attitude  of  the  dames  of  the  town  during  the 
distressful  times  of  the  Revolution.  For  it  was 
the  custom  of  these  ladies  "  to  meet  and  dedicate 
a  few  glasses  to  the  following  truly  sentimental 
and  highly  republican  toasts: 

"  1.  May  our  beloved  President  preside  at  the 
helm  of  government  longer  than  we  shall  have 
time  to  tell  his  years. 

"  2.  Mrs.  Washington,  respected  consort  of  our 
illustrious  chief. 

"  3.  May  the  fair  patriots  of  America  never 
fail  to  assert  their  independence,  which  nature 
equally  dispenses. 

"  4.  Maria      Charlotte      Corday.    May      each 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

Columbian  daughter,  like  her,  be  ready  to  sacri- 
fice their  life  to  liberty. 

"  5.  The  day  that  saw  the  wondrous  hero  rise 
shall,  more  than  all  our  sacred  days,  be  blessed." 

That  was  five  drinks.  If  a  suffrage  dinner 
party  in  this  city  filled  their  glasses  at  all  the 
Cause  would  be  lost.  I  cite  this  to  prove  that 
we  women,  while  expanding  in  our  demands,  are 
contracting  in  our  beverages. 

The  world  is  getting  better.  We  were  shown 
an  old  bill  for  liquors  concocted  at  the  Wolfe 
Tavern  and  drunk  by  gentlemen  of  distinction. 
The  sum  total  amounted  to  .£59,  of  which  only 
£7,  as  far  as  I  could  make  out,  was  ever  paid. 
W-  —  asked  the  clerk  if  we  could  get  away 
with  anything  like  that,  and  he  replied,  very 
firmly,  that  we  could  not.  So  there  seemed 
to  be  nothing  to  do  but  pay  our  account  and 
go  on. 

I  went  up  the  wide  street  which  we  had 
traversed  the  night  before  with  my  eyes 
shut — which  was  absurd,  I  grant — but  I  opened 
them  at  the  edge  of  the  town,  to  see  a  baby  of 
three  toddling  along  the  highway  in  front  of  our 
car,  evidently  making,  as  were  we,  for  Rowley. 
It  broke  into  a  frantic  little  run  as  we  appeared 
to  bear  down  upon  it,  and  roars  filled  the  air,  yet 
it  continued  on  its  way,  a  good  deal  as  we  must 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

all  do  in  life,  crying,  perhaps,  but  holding  stub- 
bornly to  our  direction  in  spite  of  the  terrors  that 
beset  us. 

I  got  out  and  led  the  child  back  to  the  old 
farmhouse  from  which  it  had  evidently  strayed, 
for  I  wished  to  take  no  chances  with  motors  less 
controlled  than  ours.  I  was  going  to  tell  the 
mother  some  things  about  guarding  her  young- 
ster, but  I  saw  at  first  glance  that  it  would  be 
wasted.  She  took  the  rescue  calmly,  her  admon- 
ishment to  the  child  consisting  of  "  baddy  boy," 
as  one  says,  "  two  lumps,  please."  So  he  is  prob- 
ably on  the  road  this  very  minute,  with  legs  grown 
a  little  longer — and  nearer  Rowley. 

We  only  wished  for  Rowley  that,  acquiring  it, 
we  might  go  on  to  Ipswich.  But  the  Common 
was  so  pleasant  that  I  insisted  upon  a  photo- 
graph of  it  for  myself.  It  remains  only  in  my 
memory  as  I  took  two  pictures  on  one  film,  the 
result  being  a  small  strip  of  grass  with  a  dog  of 
mammoth  proportions  eating  up  the  houses  be- 
yond. We  stopped  by  a  watering  trough  on 
which  was  carved  "  Blessed  are  the  Merciful," 
and  one  of  the  merciful  was  endeavouring  to  en- 
tice water  for  his  horse  from  the  reluctant  pump. 
Yet  he  was  not  blessed,  although,  had  he  pumped 
long  enough,  he  might  have  received  a  benedic- 
tion. The  only  thing  that  flowed  was  his  pro- 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

fanity,  and  at  last  he  drove  away  with  the  heast's 
thirst  unslaked. 

We  were  now  on  the  Bay  Road  of  1640,  with 
every  wrinkle  so  removed  from  its  old  face  that  it 
made  me  long  to  have  a  steam-roller  at  my  own 
command.  It  was  a  homely  way,  in  the  real  sense 
of  the  word,  for  the  air  was  full  of  the  odour  of 
autumn  pickling.  Housewives  peered  out  of  the 
doors  to  see  if  we  were  the  vinegar  they  had  sent 
for,  and  went  back  to  their  stoves  disgustedly, 
seeing  we  were  not. 

The  smell  changed  to  the  less  pleasant  one  of 
tanned  leather  as  we  came  to  Ipswich,  and  we 
stopped  before  one  factory  with  soles  drying  in 
the  sun,  to  ask  where  we  could  find  the  Whipple 
House.  We  wanted  the  Whipple  House  because 
we  wanted  to  see  the  Breeches  Bible.  That  is,  the 
Illustrator  wanted  to  see  it.  The  Bibles  which 
had  been  left  by  the  Gideons  were  good  enough 
for  me.  Besides,  I  was  afraid  to  see  the  Breeches 
Bible  for  fear  the  Illustrator  was  right. 

It  was  his  contention  that  this  famous  book, 
of  which  we  spoke  so  glibly  and  knew  so  little, 
was  given  the  name  because  it  was  the  first  Bible 
small  enough  to  go  into  a  breeches  pocket.  After 
saying  this  must  be  wrong  I  stuck  to  it,  although 
inwardly  asking  myself  why  it  should  be  called 
that  if  it  didn't  have  something  to  do  with  trou- 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

sers.  I  endeavored  to  weaken  the  Illustrator's 
attitude,  which  was  growing  more  arrogant  every 
minute,  by  asking  him  whose  breeches  it  was  that 
carried  this  Bible,  and,  after  a  minute's  hesitation, 
he  said  Mr.  Whipple's  breeches,  because  it  was  to 
be  shown  in  the  Whipple  House. 

This  I  was  sure  was  an  error,  and  he  must  have 
felt  that  he  had  gone  a  little  too  far  with  his  de- 
ductions, for  we  never  found  the  old  mansion  in 
Ipswich.  He  tried  to,  he  claimed.  He  went  up 
to  several  doorsteps  by  himself  and  asked  for 
something  or  other.  I  could  hear  him  mumbling 
out  a  question,  but  I  believe  it  concerned  the 
road  to  Essex. 

No  one  could  mistake  the  Essex  route,  and  few 
could  have  been  any  happier  than  were  we  in 
spite  of  dissension.  The  road  under  foot  was  rut- 
less,  sky  overhead  cloudless,  there  were  elm- 
shaded  villages,  red-dyed  downs,  and,  far  off, 
white  patches  of  sand  mid  strips  of  blue  water. 
More  than  that,  we  were  going  to  stop  off  for  a 
day  or  two  and  see  some  friends.  At  last  we 
were  to  have  an  opportunity  to  use  our  golf  clubs. 
Just  why  we  should  choose  friends  living  on  a 
small  island  off  the  mainland  as  those  most  likely 
to  give  us  a  game  of  golf  is  something  not  to  be 
answered  with  any  credit  to  ourselves. 

Unfortunately,  we  could  not  visit  them  if  we 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

could  not  find  the  island.  We  knew  it  was  in  the 
water,  as  an  island  should  be,  and  we  could  motor 
to  it  coming  up  from  Boston,  although  we  did  not 
know  how  to  reach  it  going  down  from  Newbury- 
port.  It  would  be  a  waste  of  time  to  go  to  Bos- 
ton in  order  to  reach  an  island  nearby,  so  we 
asked  along  the  way,  and  it  was  not  as  difficult 
to  learn  of  the  island  as  it  was  of  the  Breeches 
Bible — being  larger.  The  barber  in  Essex 
pointed  the  route.  There  is  always  an  elegant 
efficiency  in  barbers — they  cull  gossip  with  their 
razors  and  travel  vicariously. 

After  a  time  we  were  being  rowed  in  a  small 
boat  to  a  cottage  on  a  rocky  promontory,  with 
the  high  tide  encircling  half  of  it  while  our  motor 
talked  over  our  trip  to  our  friends'  motors  in  a 
garage  on  the  mainland.  I  would  like  to  go  on 
writing  of  our  life  on  the  island,  and  of  the  golf 
we  didn't  play.  But  I  am  again  frigidly  re- 
minded that  this  is  a  motoring  story,  and  that  the 
real  tour  carried  us  through  Essex  to  Gloucester. 
So  I  must  hurry  you  on,  and  say  nothing  of  the 
waves  lapping  my  room  at  night,  or  of  the  red 
flag  hung  out  in  the  morning,  and  how  the  lobster 
man,  seeing  the  signal,  rowed  directly  to  the 
door  with  his  catch.  At  least,  I  can  say  nothing 
more  than  this  except  to  advise  the  tourist  to 
spend  part  of  his  time  along  the  Massachusetts 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

coast.  I  know  that  I  have  advised  him  to  linger 
on  each  day's  run,  but,  upon  retrospect,  I  know 
no  playground  more  lovely  than  what  is  known 
as  the  North  Shore. 

Chief  in  interest  to  the  reader  may  be  the  be- 
haviour of  our  island  hosts  when  we  mentioned 
the  Breeches  Bible.  They  were  from  Boston, 
and  we  knew  their  culture  was  sufficient  to  em- 
brace complete  knowledge  of  this  sartorial  volume 
at  the  Whipple  Mansion.  But  they  showed  noth- 
ing but  an  over-developed  sense  of  humour  when 
we  told  them  our  story,  refusing  to  enlighten  us 
beyond  gasping  out  "  in  Mr.  Whipple's  pocket ! 
Oh,  Moses!" 

All  this  mysterious  reticence  drove  me  to  our 
New  York  library  as  soon  as  I  could  shake  the 
dust  of  the  tour  from  my  clothes.  I  had  grown 
fearful  of  any  further  questioning  among  my 
friends,  but  one  has  no  shame  before  the  libra- 
rians. We  grant  them  superior  creatures  at  the 
start.  The  first  one  whom  I  attacked  in  the 
history-room  behaved  unusually,  for,  instead  of 
raining  heavy  tomes  down  on  me  from  the  gal- 
lery, he  unlocked  a  door  and  told  me  "  third  turn- 
ing to  the  right  and  there  it  is." 

He  then  pushed  me  away  unwillingly  while  I 
muttered  that  "  it "  was  at  Ipswich,  that  all  I 
wanted  was  to  know  about  it,  and  that  a  small 
-J-250-*- 


IP 
1 


nnvixc.  orr  SAIL, 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

encyclopedia  would  be  sufficient.  I  reiterated  this 
same  speech  to  a  blond  young  man  at  the  third 
door  to  the  right,  who  did  not  hear  me  out,  but 
turned  on  his  heel,  and  came  back  with  a  good- 
sized  volume  in  a  new  binding.  He  was  apolo- 
getic about  the  binding.  He  was  sorry  that  it 
was  new,  but  their  first  edition  was  under  lock 
and  key. 

I  was  inclined  to  be  severe  with  him.  I  told 
him  that  the  Breeches  Bible  was  at  the  Whipple 
House  at  Ipswich,  unless  (I  dwelt  upon  this) 
it  had  been  recently  stolen.  But  he  was  not  at 
all  resentful.  He  said  all  of  the  Bibles  printed 
in  England  from  1560  to  1590  were  Breeches 
Bibles,  and  he  did  not  laugh  when  I  cried 
out  in  despair  over  the  size  pockets  must  have 
been  to  carry  such  large  volumes.  He  was  accus- 
tomed to  ignorami  like  myself.  He  very  gently, 
something  in  the  manner  of  a  physician,  turned 
to  the  third  chapter  of  Genesis,  walking  mod- 
estly away  while  I  read  these  words: 

"  Then  the  eyes  of  them  both  were  opened, 
and  they  knew  that  they  were  naked,  and  they 
sewed  figge-tree  leaves  together,  and  made  them- 
selves breeches." 

"  So,"  continued  the  young  man,  not  looking 
at  me,  "  such  editions  employing  this  word  were 
classed  under  the  head  of  the  Breeches  Bible." 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

And  the  worst  of  it  is  I  remember  now  having 
learned  that  at  school,  and  the  Illustrator  re- 
members having  learned  it  also. 

We  left  for  Gloucester  exactly  at  the  hour  we 
had  arrived  in  Essex  a  few  days  back,  so  the 
running  time  was  not  confused  in  our  simple 
minds. 

Gloucester  is  on  a  peninsula  and  one  can  cut 
it  out  altogether,  but  if  he  does  he  will  miss  the 
quaintest  seaport  on  the  route,  and  millions  of 
codfish  drying  in  the  sun,  like  the  leather  soles. 
The  Gloucester  boats  still  go  to  the  Banks.  Some 
do  not  return,  and  every  spring  there  is  a  service 
at  the  water's  edge,  when  flowers  are  thrown 
upon  the  surface  to  be  carried  out  by  the  tide 
for  those  who  did  not  come  back. 

The  wharves  and  boats  are  so  picturesquely 
ragged  that  I  thought  we  had  lost  the  Illustrator 
forever.  The  chauffeur  and  I  broiled  in  the  sun 
as  we  sat  in  the  car.  We  were  alongside  a  ship 
in  dry-dock,  and  I  agonised  over  the  effort  it 
must  take  to  get  the  vessels  up  this  incline.  A 
workman — not  working — told  me  nothing  could 
be  easier:  once  get  them  on  the  ways,  and  they 
can  be  pulled  up  by  hand.  It  still  seemed  a  diffi- 
cult process  to  me,  and  our  young  driver,  whose 
life  is  far  removed  from  dry-docks,  mistook  ways 
for  waves,  and  remarked,  to  the  great  disgust  of 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

the  longshoreman,  that  he  wouldn't  have  thought 
the  waves  big  enough  to  get  a  boat  on  them. 

We  ate  a  "  shore  dinner,"  consisting  of  fish 
"  just  in  that  morning,"  and  clams  cooked  four 
different  ways.  How  surprising  it  would  be  to 
hear  of  fish  "  just  in  yesterday  morning,"  or, 
grown  absolutely  honest,  to  have  our  fish  dealer 
say,  "  Here  is  something  choice,  ma'am,  not  over 
three  months  old."  I  have  a  cousin  who  makes 
eighty  per  cent,  out  of  the  frozen-fish  industry, 
and  it  is  possible  that  the  truthful  fishmonger 
should  make  this  speech  oftener  than  he  does. 
I  do  not  believe  in  frozen  fish,  although  I  have 
frequently  endeavoured  to  buy  some  of  my 
cousin's  stock. 

While  the  fish  was  fresh,  the  coffee  was  so  stale 
that  I  asked  in  all  sincerity  if  it  really  was  coffee. 
The  waitress  gathered  up  my  cup  with  the 
avowed  intention  of  getting  some  made.  "  I'm  a 
coffee  drinker  myself,"  she  said,  sympathetically. 
She  was  an  amiable  girl,  prefacing  her  attendance 
upon  us  by  remarking  that,  "  It  sure  was  one 
grand  day." 

We  could  not  dispute  this,  and  we  remained 
uniform  in  all  our  opinions  until  the  change  came 
from  the  bill  W-  -  gave  her.  The  coins  on  the 
plate  were  so  large  that  it  would  seem  she  must 
receive  a  tip  out  of  all  proportion  to  our  account. 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

But  the  Illustrator  found  some  odd  quarters  in 
his  pocket,  and  from  that  moment  a  cold  east 
wind  blew  between  us. 

Another  villager  remained  sympatico  from  first 
to  last.  We  stopped  in  the  narrow  main  street  to 
ask  for  an  art  store  of  a  policeman  big  enough 
for  New  York  to  entrap  and  carry  away.  The 
shop  was  directly  in  front  of  us,  this  causing  a 
laugh  at  the  Illustrator's  expense,  which  en- 
gendered a  friendliness  between  the  policeman 
and  myself. 

I  do  not  know  why  at  least  one  person  in  a 
humorous  story  must  suffer.  To  render  some 
one  uncomfortable  appears  to  be  the  foundation 
of  all  pleasantries.  And  it  must  be  a  human 
being,  for  there  is  no  fun  in  a  story  when  the 
laugh  is  on  a  horse,  or  a  rose-tree,  or  a  lobster- 
pot.  I  often  grow  sorry  for  the  Illustrator  in 
this  book  as  all  the  laughs  are  on  him.  And  some 
day,  he  tells  me,  he  is  going  to  write  a  book  of 
his  own,  relating  the  number  of  times  he  has 
scored  off  me,  which,  no  doubt,  the  present 
reader  will  find  delightful. 

The  policeman  was  glad  that  we  had  artistic 
inclinations.  He  had  once  sung  in  a  glee  club 
that  went  all  over  New  Hampshire  and  he  had 
also  played  in  a  brass  band  in  Providence.  "  And 
now  look  at  me,"  he  sighed,  "  nothing  but  a 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

policeman."  I  knew  he  was  an  artist  then,  for 
surely  no  one  but  a  Bohemian  would  find  an 
officer  of  the  law  anything  but  the  next  best  job 
to  that  of  President. 

We  got  along  so  exceedingly  well  that  I  told 
him  one  of  Gloucester's  most  prominent  summer 
residents  had,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  asked  me  to 
marry  him,  and  I,  at  fourteen,  had  considered  it 
seriously.  The  policeman's  respect  for  me  in- 
creased enormously  and,  as  the  prominent  cot- 
tager walked  along  this  street  every  day  and 
always  nodded  pleasantly,  this  member  of  the 
force  promised  to  convey  my  regards.  He  took 
out  his  notebook  to  write  down  my  name,  so  that 
the  distinguished  gentleman  would  not  confuse 
me  with  some  girl  he  had  arranged  to  marry  a 
little  earlier  or  a  little  later  in  his  career.  The 
passersby  thought  I  was  being  summoned,  and 
ceased  to  be  passersby,  by  stopping  and  becoming 
a  crowd.  So  that  they  had  to  be  dispersed, 
sternly,  by  the  law. 

I  parted  with  this  artistic  policeman  reluctantly, 
not  only  because  he  was  a  Bohemian  at  heart, 
but  for  the  reason  that  we  were  now  going  into 
a  part  of  the  country  where  roadside  conversa- 
tions were  rare.  Insidiously,  as  we  found  our- 
selves among  formal  people,  we  began  to  assume 
a  conventional  manner.  We  hated  it,  but  it  was 
-J-255-J- 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

not  to  be  shaken  off.  And  as  we  commenced 
our  drive  along  the  North  Shore,  from  Magnolia 
through  Manchester,  Prides,  and  Beverly,  we 
were  certain  that  we  were  far  removed  from  "  ex- 
periences "  beyond  the  probability  of  a  collision 
at  each  sharp  turn. 

But,  in  motoring,  the  loss  of  one  form  of  enjoy- 
ment can  always  be  compensated  by  the  acquiring 
of  another.  Where  there  are  no  farmers  to 
talk  to  there  are  generally  better  roads;  where 
there  are  no  quaint  towns  there  is  open  coun- 
try; where  no  open  country  there  are  great 
estates. 

On  the  North  Shore  life  in  a  stable  is  not  to  be 
despised  and  one  in  a  cottage  beyond  the  dreams 
of  avarice.  There  are  miles  of  these  estates  lin- 
ing either  side  the  road,  and,  although  a  radical, 
I  did  not  find  the  wealth  exasperating.  We  had 
grown  so  grateful  to  the  woods  and  fields,  which 
had  long  been  our  companions,  for  their  deco- 
rative qualities,  that  this  land  of  gabled  houses, 
French  chateaux,  and  old  English  manors  we  ac- 
cepted as  a  combination  of  nature  and  humanity 
to  make  our  trip  delightful.  With  the  growing 
egoism  of  the  motorist,  we  felt  that  this  pageantry 
was  arranged  for  us,  and  we  were  able  to  enjoy 
the  lavish  expenditure  of  others  with  no  tax  on 
our  own  purse.  Blessed  be  the  highway.  It  is 
-a-256-*- 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

for  rich  and  poor  alike,  and  on  such  a  tour  as 
ours  is  as  infinitely  varied  as  life  itself. 

The  road  continued  fine,  although  the  estates 
dwindled  into  smaller  garden  patches,  with  a  pas- 
ture for  the  family  cow,  as  we  approached  Salem. 
This  is  one  of  the  towns  that  needs  no  guide- 
book or  further  digging  into  histories.  Ahout 
the  first  thing  learned  in  school  which  remained 
in  our  memory  before  we  had  reached  the  corner 
was  the  witchcraft  of  Salem.  And  I  think  to-day 
any  small  boy  of  this  town  would  write  "  witches  " 
as  the  principal  exports  and  imports  of  the  place 
if  the  question  was  put  to  him  at  examinations. 

All  one  has  to  say  as  we  motor  into  the  old 
town  is  "  witches,"  and  the  youngsters  leap  to 
the  running-board,  firing  volleys  of  misinforma- 
tion as  you  drive  through  the  streets.  They 
meretriciously  confuse  Hawthorne's  House  of  the 
Seven  Gables  with  the  Witches'  Jail,  and  point 
out  the  drug  store,  which  is  the  real  !c  Witch 
House,"  as  that  unhappy  roof  tree  which  shel- 
tered the  Reverend  Parris — who  began  all  the 
trouble.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  reign  of  terror 
started  at  Danvers,  five  miles  to  the  west  of 
Salem.  Here  Samuel  Parris,  through  the  testi- 
mony of  eight  girls,  ranging  in  years  from  eleven 
to  twenty,  caused  the  death  of  twenty  innocent 
women.  These  unfortunates  were  not  even 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

hanged  in  Salem,  but  on  Gallows  Hill,  a  mile  to 
the  west,  which,  as  a  guidebook  puts  it,  "  can  be 
reached  by  a  pleasant  trolley  ride." 

In  spite  of  the  humming  trolleys  and  a  stirring 
of  industrial  activities,  Salem  remains  uncanny. 
I  am  sure  that  I  would  live  in  fear  of  the  law 
so  long  as  I  stayed  there.  A  filthy  railway  sta- 
tion does  not  dissipate  the  atmosphere  of  Puritan 
times,  nor  does  the  new  portion  of  the  town, 
now  largely  destroyed  by  fire,  lend  an  air  of 
modernity. 

Indeed,  there  is  something  sinister  about  this 
new  part,  with  its  wide  open  spaces,  being  licked 
up  by  the  flames  when  the  old,  closely  settled 
region  remained  invulnerable.  It  was  as  though 
some  of  those  witches  had  been  flying  about  in 
the  sky,  sweeping  back  the  fire  with  their  magic 
brooms.  The  Illustrator,  who  accepted  my  idea 
without  surprise,  said  that  it  was  most  unlikely, 
as  the  spirit  witches,  if  they  had  any  sense  at  all, 
would  burn  up  the  old  part  of  the  town,  taking 
particular  enjoyment  in  consuming  the  descend- 
ants of  such  Puritans  as  had  led  them  out  to 
Gallows  Hill.  Why  is  it,  I  wonder,  that  it  is 
estimable  to  have  as  forbears  those  who  have  con- 
demned a  poor  creature  to  the  gallows,  when  it  is 
so  disreputable  to  descend  from  those  who  were 
hanged  ? 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

We  shook  our  last  small  guide  off  the  running- 
board  as  we  passed  out  through  the  burned  por- 
tion, refusing  a  log  of  charred  wood  as  a  souvenir, 
and  swept  on  to  Swampscott,  watches  in  our 
hands,  for  we  were  dining  with  friends  in  Boston 
that  night.  The  traveller  would  do  well  to  take 
the  longer  road  by  way  of  Marblehead.  It  is 
not  much  of  a  pull,  after  ten  days  of  motoring, 
to  choose  between  friends  and  a  pleasant  detour. 
We  would  have  abandoned  ours  shamelessly  had 
they  not  been  motoring  during  the  summer  also, 
and  we  were  anxious  to  assure  them  that  our 
experience  had  been  more  successful  than  theirs. 

Swampscott  is  principally  green  in  our  mem- 
ories for  a  loud  report  which  we  took  to  be  that 
of  the  tire  of  an  automobile  behind  us,  affording  us 
much  amusement.  A  few  more  revolutions  and 
we  knew  it  was  our  report  and  our  tire,  the  car 
stopping  nicely  in  front  of  a  garage,  although 
the  shoe  detached  itself  completely  and  rolled  on 
toward  Boston,  until  subjugated  by  a  small  boy. 
Small  boys  were  plentiful  in  Swampscott.  They 
read  the  foreign  labels  on  our  battered  trunk  with 
no  emotion  beyond  a  skepticism  that  we  had  ever 
been  further  than  the  confines  of  our  country. 
The  discovery  of  our  New  York  number  gave 
us  a  better  position  than  the  labels,  and  one  boy 
with  a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes  asked  me  if  it 
.-*-  259  -*- 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

was  very  crowded  there.  I  told  him  that  it  was 
no  more  crowded  than  Boston,  and  again  I  fell 
in  his  esteem.  "  I  am  to  go  there  some  day,"  he 
told  me,  and  I  am  sure  that  he  will — and 
further.  That  far-away  look  in  one's  eyes  carries 
one's  feet  through  many  lands. 

There  is  a  series  of  boulevards  clinging  to  the 
coast,  leading  through  Cambridge  that  one  may 
avoid  the  traffic  of  lower  Boston,  which  com- 
bines to  make  this  day's  run  as  perfect  as  one 
can  find  in  America  or  any  other  country.  From 
Lynn  we  began  to  feel  the  tremulousness  which 
seizes  us  as  we  approach  a  great  city.  There  was 
that  perfect  order  of  the  road,  the  many  wisely- 
worded  signs,  and  the  excellent  system  of  light- 
ing, which  is  the  blend  of  city  brains  and  city 
money. 

We  approached  Boston  intelligently — as  one 
should — and  we  would,  I  believe,  have  arrived  on 
time  for  dinner  had  not  the  Wellington  Bridge — 
whatever  that  is,  we  never  saw  it — been  closed. 
Some  said  it  had  burned  up,  and,  after  prowling 
about  on  the  Middlesex  Fenway  for  a  long  way, 
we,  in  our  exasperation,  hoped  if  it  hadn't  that 
it  would.  Yet  we  never  left  the  fine  macadam, 
passing  through  Medford  and  Somerville,  and, 
quite  unexpectedly,  finding  ourselves  in  the  midst 
of  Cambridge  kultur. 


9:i\j. 


I'AKK    STUKKT,    MOSTOX 


NORTH  SHORE  AND  BREECHES  BIBLE 

Here  we  paused,  for  the  motorist  can  trail 
through  a  country  as  an  Indian  can  pick  his 
way  in  a  forest,  but  Indian  and  automobile  alike 
bow  to  the  intricacies  of  city  streets.  A  large 
yellow  car  asked  if  we  were  going  to  Copley 
Square,  and  as  we  were  (or  would  have  if  we 
hadn't  been,  since  the  car  had  a  sort  of  Copley 
Square  look  about  it)  we  followed  it  humbly  to 
the  city.  No  doubt  any  stranger  will  find  just 
such  a  kindly  motor  ready  for  escort,  although  I 
cannot  guarantee  the  canary  colour. 

We  needed  no  guide  after  we  reached  the 
bridge  spanning  the  Charles  River  at  Massa- 
chusetts Avenue,  and  we  called  out  the  names 
of  the  streets,  each  trying  to  get  ahead  of  the 
other,  as  though  we  had  discovered  them  for  the 
first  time.  Beacon  Street — Newbury,  or  is  it — 
Commonwealth  Avenue — keep  on  till  you  get  to 
Dartmouth — but  is  it  called  Dartmouth  on  this 
side  the  square? — turn  in,  turn  in — all  torn  up — I 
have  lived  in  that  hotel — here  we  are — what 
makes  you  think  so? — Why,  The  Library! 

Lights  too  dim,  and  erudition,  and  plate-glass 
windows,  and  wisely  arranged  flowers;  women 
with  bags,  no  spectacles  whatever,  good  deeds 
a-plenty,  and  a  curious  joyousness,  which  is  not  to 
be  understood — or  denied.  That's  Boston. 


261 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Among  the  Puritans 

THERE  is  a  saying  that  a  visitor  who  tarries  over 
a  week  on  the  Isle  of  Capri  stays  there  for  life, 
and  while  Boston  is  far  removed  from  that  lotus- 
eating  land,  it  has  a  like  hold  upon  you. 

If  I  were  a  tourist  from  the  West  I  should 
spend  the  summer  in  Boston.  There  is  much  to 
keep  one  interested:  roof  gardens  gay  with  cham- 
pagne, and  earth  gardens  resplendent  with  flow- 
ers; public  institutions,  beautiful  to  the  eye  and 
satisfying  to  the  mind,  enrich  the  fine  drives; 
brilliant  shops  deplete  the  purse;  and  a  profu- 
sion of  railway  tracks  run  through  the  town  to 
assure  the  visitor  that  he  can  get  away  quickly 
if  he  wants  to. 

We  did  not  remain  long  this  time,  remember- 
ing the  adage  regarding  Capri.  We  started  at 
noon  of  the  next  day,  after  the  Illustrator  had 
made  a  sketch  of  the  old  State  House  from  the 
front  seat  in  the  car.  He  was  most  triumphant, 
as  this  was  the  first  time  the  car  had  been  able  to 
fulfill  its  original  mission,  which  was  to  save  him 
the  rental  of  a  chair.  And  he  paid  a  high  compli- 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

ment  to  the  Boston  citizens  for  not  bothering  him 
as  he  sat  in  the  busy  street.  "  Brains  count,"  he 
said. 

The  luggage  was  strapped  on  with  the  same 
despatch  to  be  found  in  country  inns.  I  had  won- 
dered, before  our  arrival,  if  there  would  not  be 
some  confusion  in  finding  a  garage  in  so  large 
a  city.  But,  of  course,  there  was  none,  the  taxi- 
cab-starter  of  the  hotel,  driving  off  with  the 
chauffeur,  instead  of  a  bell-boy,  to  show  the  way. 
It  came  to  me,  then,  as  it  has  many  times  before, 
that  there  is  some  one  to  take  care  of  us  in  every 
exigency  of  life  if  we  assume  a  helpless  air. 

In  five  minutes  we  were  lost  in  the  Fenway, 
circling  around  the  flower  beds  and  statues  to 
men  (who  would  have  been  less  profane  than 

W in  such  a  predicament)  in  an  effort  to 

reach  Jamaica.  We  received  many  directions 
which  were  at  variance  with  the  beauty  of  the 
drive,  for  our  landmarks  were  not  the  clump  of 
hydrangeas,  the  wall  of  fuchsias,  or  even  Arnold 
arboretum,  but  simple,  homely  things,  like  the 
railway  bridge,  the  pump,  and  the  saloon  at  Blue 
Hill  Avenue. 

We  were  further  hampered  by  a  babel  of  for- 
eign tongues.  Once  safely  established  on  Blue 
Hill  Avenue,  we  forbore  to  ask  for  anything  as 
difficult  to  pronounce  as  Ponkapoag,  thinking  it 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

safer  to  limit  ourselves  to  an  English  word  like 
Stoughton.  We  had  known  a  family  of  Stough- 
tons  once,  and  it  was  pronounced  Stow-ton  as  it 
should  be,  but  the  gentlemen  selling  berries  would 
have  none  of  this.  If  we  would  go  to  Stoughton 
with  the  first  syllable  sounding  like  the  "  o  "  in 
how  he  was  ready  to  direct  us,  and  we  had  to 
repeat  it  after  him  before  he  let  us  pass  on. 
There  was  the  same  scrimmage  in  our  effort  to 
reach  Taunton.  We  had  to  give  it  up  until  we 
were  willing  to  ask  the  way  to  Tanton.  I  de- 
manded of  one  lady,  with  the  intention  of  crush- 
ing her,  if  one  in  New  England  "  taunted  a  per- 
son or  tanted  a  person,"  and  she  replied  that, 
while  she  never  did  any  such  thing,  if  the  occa- 
sion ever  arose  she  would  undoubtedly  "  tant  her." 
I  don't  know  why  she  said  "  her  "  when  I  said 
"  a  person,"  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that,  in 
spite  of  her  godliness,  some  one  of  her  own  sex 
was  on  the  brink  of  a  "  tanting." 

The  Blue  Hill  Observatory  sits  up  on  a  hill 
at  our  left  as  we  approach  Stoughton.  And, 
while  we  did  not  see  it,  it  was  doubtless  observing 
us  in  the  pursuance  of  its  duty,  and  recording 
that  a  buff  motor-car  was  stealing  apples.  The 
Germans  frugally  make  use  of  fruit  trees  on 
either  side  their  country  ways— the  sale  of  the 
fruit  paying  for  the  upkeep  of  the  roads.  But 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

the  Germans  are  an  honest  people,  too  much  in 
awe  of  their  government  to  steal  anything  asso- 
ciated with  the  military.  We  have  never  stolen 
an  apple  in  Germany,  but  such  of  the  fruit  as 
hung  over  the  fence  in  America  we  seemed 
strangely  drawn  to.  W said  it  was  danger- 
ous to  have  apples  blocking  the  way  like  that — 
they  might  fall  off,  hitting  some  one — and  our 
efforts,  combined  with  those  of  some  small  boys, 
largely  rid  the  roadway  of  this  insidious  peril. 

A  party  of  cavalrymen  appeared  over  a  hill, 
and  we  hurriedly  concealed  the  apples,  in  the  in- 
stinctive fear  of  uniforms.  We  heard  a  great 
shout  after  they  had  passed  us,  and  the  chauffeur 
speeded  up,  looking  as  guilty  as  though  he  had 
run  over  a  baby.  But  the  Illustrator  nobly 
bade  him  stop,  and  it  was  well  that  he  did,  for 
the  cavalrymen  had  discovered  that  our  hatbox 
was  open.  And  while  we  had  not  lost  the  driver's 
derby,  ten  soiled  collars  of  the  Illustrator's,  with 
which  he  had  surreptitiously  encircled  my  hat, 
were  distributed  along  the  roadway,  while  a  suit 
of  pajamas  was  about  to  hop  out  and  see  the 
world. 

We  were  glad  this  error  was  rectified  before 
we  reached  Taunton,  as  the  guidebook  tells  us 
that  it  was  founded  by  a  pious  Puritan,  Elizabeth 
Pool,  who  had  come  from  Taunton  in  Somerset- 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

shire.  I  think  she  was  to  be  commended  for  not 
naming  it  Pool,  as  I  am  sure  any  man  would 
have  been  tempted  to  do. 

Upon  a  former  visit  here,  I  saw  a  madman 
running  amuck  in  the  principal  street,  but  I  fear 
even  that  offence  to  decorum  would  be  obliterated 

if  we  had  sought  the  hotel  with  W 's  pajamas 

swinging  from  the  hatbox  as  though  they  were  a 
trapeze  performer. 

We  did  not  recognise  the  hotel  at  first,  as  it 
had  a  new  front  in  Spanish  mission  style.  Re- 
membering the  interior,  I  greatly  feared  that 
beauty  would  continue  only  skin  deep.  But  I 
was  wrong,  for  we  sat  down  in  a  new  dining- 
room  to  a  table  d'hote  luncheon,  which  was  not 
so  young  as  it  was  at  noon,  but  still  with  the 
warmth  of  youth.  It  was  only  fifty  cents.  I 
mention  the  price,  for  that  was  the  smallest 
amount  we  paid  on  our  tour.  And  we  wished  for 
several  stomachs,  like  a  camel,  to  store  up  fifty- 
cent  luncheons  for  the  rest  of  the  journey. 

Yet,  as  we  uttered  this  flippancy,  we  stared  at 
each  other  in  amazement,  for  we  did  not  need 
this  charming  qualification  of  the  camel. 

;<  The  rest  of  the  journey! "  We  grew  a  little 
sad  as  we  reflected  that  we  would  consume  but 
one  more  luncheon  as  travellers  of  the  road. 
According  to  our  figuring  we  would  spend  the 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

night  in  Newport,  the  next  in  Bridgeport,  and  by 
noon  of  that  day  I  would  be  talking  over  the 
telephone  to  the  mysterious  butcher  with  the 
pleasant  voice,  whom  I  have  never  seen,  and 
begging  him  to  French  the  chops,  please.  Or, 
perhaps  I  would  get  the  wrong  number,  and  tell 
a  strange  young  gentleman  about  the  chops,  who 
would  interrupt  me  to  say,  "  This  is  the  morgue, 
madam,"  and  hang  up  before  I  could  retort  that 
the  morgue  was  what  I  wanted — with  him  in  it. 

We  went  out  thoughtfully,  W to  make 

a  sketch  of  a  modern  public  building,  as  though 
he  already  felt  the  influence  of  new  New  York, 
and  I  to  buy  a  patent  mouse-trap,  mindful  of  my 
kitchen,  which  I  saw  in  a  window. 

The  mouse-trap  later  proved  a  failure,  catching 
only  my  handmaiden's  toe,  but  the  sketch  was 

more  successful.  Or  was  it?  W sent  a  proof 

of  the  original  to  the  postmaster  at  Taunton  to 
ask  the  name  of  the  building,  for  he  had  for- 
gotten that  in  the  numbing  thought  that  he  would 
soon  be  in  his  studio — with  only  a  daily  spin 
through  the  park  when  work  was  over.  The 
postmaster  sent  back  the  proof,  writing  across 
it  that  "  It  is  the  Court  House — and  a  very 
good  one."  So  we  do  not  know  whether  he  re- 
ferred to  the  drawing  or  the  edifice. 

Upon  leaving  Taunton  for  Fall  River,  an  ice 
-+267-*- 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

wagon  told  us  that  we  would  have  to  make  a 
detour,  as  the  road  was  in  process  of  reconstruc- 
tion. But  we  did  not  heed  its  warning,  for  ice 
wagons  are  proverbially  slow,  and  the  repairs 
might  have  been  completed  since  it  last  covered 
the  ground. 

Ice  wagons  are  not  only  slow,  but  conventional. 
It  is  the  only  kind  of  vehicle  that  has  not  changed 
its  outline  within  my  memory.  Even  the  surrey 
of  my  youth  had  summers  with  and  without 
fringe  about  its  top,  and  sometimes  you  got  in 
from  the  front,  squeezing  yourself  into  the  back 
seat,  or  leaped  in  directly  from  a  low  step.  You 
always  get  on  at  the  back  if  you  enter  an  ice 
wagon,  which  you  are  warned  not  to  do  by  a 
threatening  sign  of  "  Danger  "  swinging  aloft. 

But,  as  children,  we  paid  small  attention  to 
these  signs,  and  as  grown-ups  on  the  road  to  Fall 
River,  we  continued  in  spite  of  a  gloomy  notice 
to  the  effect  that  we  did  so  at  our  own  risk.  Con- 
sidering that  everything  we  do  in  life  is  at  our  own 
risk,  and  that  the  county  is  not  any  more  re- 
sponsible for  the  traveller  on  a  good  road  than 
on  a  bad  one,  I  took  exception  to  this  grim 
washing  their  hands  of  us. 

There  is  only  one  meaner  trait,  and  that  is  the 
"  I  told  you  so,"  which  comes  after  we  have  done 
something  at  our  own  risk,  and  the  act,  by  pure 


2sa  m~*£$$zmx 


i:tf>^3«te4B0»*r"      "ftfaagtffatiHU***, 

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prflO^ML^ter 


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THK    COrHT    IIOrSK    AT   TAl  \'K)X 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

chance,  has  not  turned  out  well.  Road-menders, 
hard  men  by  profession,  who,  as  a  rule,  would 
never  do  anything  for  you  at  their  own  risk  or 
yours,  possess  this  attribute  to  such  a  degree  as 
to  put  to  shame  even  mothers  and  school-teachers. 
They  gathered  about  us  on  the  road  to  Fall 
River,  when  we  found  ourselves  in  what  would 
appear  to  be  the  bed  of  a  dried  mountain  stream 
full  of  boulders,  and  taunted — no,  tanted  us  with 
"  I  told  you  sos,"  until  I  was  ready  to  burst  into 
tears. 

The  Illustrator  was  braver  than  I.  He  did 
not  cry,  and  he  tormented  the  captain  of  the 
road-menders  by  assuring  him  that  we  had  seen 
much  worse  thoroughfares,  and  thought  we  would 
continue.  Labourers  along  the  way  are  like 
plumbers.  They  like  to  tear  everything  up  and 
leave  it  in  as  horrible  a  condition  as  possible.  It 
hurt  this  man  to  suggest  that  he  had  not  done 
his  best  to  create  discomfort  to  automobiles.  But 
he  was  a  Yankee,  with  that  humour  known  as 
dry,  because  it  is  withering  in  its  results. 

He  said  we  had  a  good  car — a  trained  car. 
He  could  tell  that  by  the  number  of  gaits  it  ex- 
ercised when  going  over  the  boulders.  But  he 
doubted  if  it  was  a  jumper.  Now  the  bridge 
was  down  a  few  yards  on,  and  if  it  could  jump 
twenty-three  feet,  "  go  right  on,  go  right  on " 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

He  was  a  very  tiresome  man  and  we  did  not 
hear  him  out,  cutting  straight  into  a  pumpkin 
field  as  though  it  were  ours,  and  gaining  a  narrow 
lane  (before  the  real  pumpkin  man  saw  us) 
which  led  us  down  to  the  Taunton  River. 

We  rejoined  the  main  road  here.  There  was  a 
lovely  old  house  at  this  corner,  and  along  the 
highway,  which  followed  the  river-bank,  came  a 
party  of  schoolgirls,  marching  gaily  and  singing. 
Some  boys  on  bicycles  carried  their  coats,  at 
least  they  carried  them  as  far  as  our  car,  when 
they  shamefacedly  rebelled,  thinking  to  establish 
their  claim  to  manhood  by  refusing  to  "  lug  "  for 
girls  any  further. 

"  All  but  Mamie's,"  they  said.  They  were 
willing  to  continue  being  slaves  to  Mamie.  I 
endeavoured  to  pick  out  Mamie  among  the  lot. 
I  could  see  her  in  my  mind  as  the  village  charmer, 
amiable  to  the  other  girls,  smiling,  doing  nothing, 
and  getting  all  the  boys  without  the  appearance 
of  effort.  But  she  was  a  little  lame  girl,  limping 
along  in  the  rear,  her  deformity  denying  her  full 
share  in  the  sports  of  life,  while  she  received,  in 
their  place,  the  compensations  of  the  fragile. 

The  girls  went  on  a-carolling,  and  the  boys 
went  on  a-caracolling,  the  river  was  blue,  and 
green  trees  arched  over  the  road,  and,  all  of  a 
sudden,  I  was  back  in  Sicily,  looking  through  grey 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

olive  trees  to  the  purple  sea.  A  tiller  of  the  field 
nearby  was  singing  an  improvised  canzonetta, 
such  as  Mascagni  has  put  into  his  operas,  and  a 
girl  was  laughing  at  him. 

But,  just  as  this  scene  in  Massachusetts  re- 
minded me  of  Sicily,  so  did  Sicily,  then,  recall 
a  picture  which  has  never  filled  my  real  vision, 
for  the  picture  was  of  ancient  times  when  Greek 
girls  and  boys  walked  among  these  olive  groves, 
which  run  down  to  the  sea.  Just  as  we  lurched 
along  the  road  in  Sicily,  I  with  the  sensation  of 
living  in  classic  days,  just  so,  now,  I  was  far  re- 
moved from  the  boys  and  girls  walking  by 
Taunton  River.  I  think  it  is  youth  which  re- 
news these  glad  visions.  Is  it  not  a  lovely 
thought  to  enlighten  a  tired  face  that  our  souls 
remain  unalterably  young! 

It  is  hard  to  dip  suddenly  into  megaphones 
after  this  flight  of  fancy.  But,  as  we  were  about 
to  pass  the  bridge  instead  of  crossing  it  to  get 
into  Fall  River,  a  quiet  voice,  from  nowhere 
seemingly,  told  us  to  go  over  it.  The  purveyor 
of  this  news  was  an  obliging  old  man  some  dis- 
tance away,  with  one  of  these  valuable  instru- 
ments in  active  use,  and  we  crossed  the  bridge 
waving  wireless  thanks. 

W-  -  immediately  wished  for  a  megaphone  as 
part  of  our  equipment.  We  could  then  inquire 
r*-  271  -*- 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

the  way  of  countrymen  rocking  on  far-off  porches 
and  ask  them  to  reply  by  definite  nods,  negative  or 
positive,  if  we  were  right.  I  had  once  pursued 
some  such  a  course  in  Germany,  for  my  desire  was 
to  limit  the  volley  of  directions  which  I  could  not 
understand  to  Ja  or  Nein,  and  I  learned  care- 
fully: "Answer  me  yes  or  no,  otherwise  I  do 
not  understand  you."  And  this  worked  to  a 
charm,  economising  both  vocal  expenditure  and 
time.  But  I  grant  that  the  Illustrator's  idea  for 
a  megaphone  was  electrifying,  and  I  spent  the 
next  half  hour  planning  what  I  could  pack  into 
it. 

Fall  River,  except  in  time  of  strikes,  we  think 
of  only  as  a  place  where  the  boats  stop — and 
start.  But  we  found  it  a  town  of  so  many  mean 
streets,  given  over  to  factory  hands,  that  the 
finely  housed  must  serve  as  an  inspiration  for,  no 
doubt,  they  too  were  once  of  the  narrow  by-ways. 
The  main  street  is  lined  with  cheap  shops,  con- 
taining tawdry  clothing.  One  wishes  that  the 
poor  could  get  more  comfortable  values  for  their 
money,  but  the  aim  at  present  is  to  copy  as 
cheaply  as  possible  the  garments  of  the  prosper- 
ous. Possibly  a  feather  in  a  hat  may  mean  more 
than  a  warm  body,  and  a  brass  bracelet  express 
a  stirring  after  the  ideal  which,  while  formless, 
is  in  all  our  hearts. 

-»-  272  •*- 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

A  newsboy  from  whom  we  bought  a  New  York 
evening  paper  (with  a  beating  in  our  breasts  at 
the  pink  sheet)  had  his  ideal  of  an  automobile. 
"Gotta  self-starter— Yep?"  he  asked.  And 
when  we  were  forced  to  reply,  "  Haven't  got 
one — nope,"  he  lost  all  interest.  It  depressed  us. 
But,  had  we  lingered,  I  might  have  developed  some 
violent  friendships,  for  Yankees,  like  their  archi- 
tecture, are  too  fine  in  design  to  cover  ginger- 
bread souls. 

We  were  now  on  the  right  of  the  river,  going 
toward  Tiverton,  which  is  the  door  to  Newport. 
It  is  a  very  sporty  door,  and  if  any  automobilist 
is  too  puritanical  to  inquire  the  way  of  a  drink- 
ing-place,  he  will  never  get  any  further,  as  all 
Tiverton  is  roadhouses.  We  compromised  on  a 
wharf  cafe,  exhibiting  a  greater  array  of  fish 
than  bottles,  and  found  that  we  must  traverse  the 
bridge,  and,  immediately,  on  the  other  side,  we 
would  find  Newport  beginning.  . 

It  began  slowly,  but  in  a  most  dignified  man- 
ner. We  passed  miles  of  fine  farms  with  the 
houses  (inversely,  for  the  American  farmer) 
larger  than  the  barns.  Blooded  horses  were  in 
the  paddock,  bored  oxen  in  the  pastures,  and 
chickens,  with  family  trees  to  roost  upon,  walked 
in  and  out  of  their  steam-heated  apartments. 

On  the   outskirts   of   the   town  we  were   sur- 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

prised  to  discover  that  here  was  a  district  of  new 
frame  residences,  a  terrible  combining  of  the 
Georges  with  Queen  Anne,  tempered  to  decency 
by  red  mission  roofs.  They  were  the  kind  we 
see  in  every  growing  Western  town,  and  the 
homes,  I  suppose,  of  the  prosperous  tradesmen 
of  the  town.  One  never  thinks  of  any  one  living 
in  Newport  except  a  few  old,  impoverished  fam- 
ilies, and  the  rich  cottagers,  who  come  for  the 
summer. 

We  did  our  duty  by  the  great  palaces,  indus- 
triously pointing  out  the  houses  of  the  great  to 
our  indifferent  chauffeur,  who  seemed  chiefly  in- 
terested because  he  knew  some  of  the  men  from 
their  various  garages.  One  cannot  motor  along 
the  front  of  these  palaces,  but  a  wise  law,  created 
many  years  ago,  makes  the  edge  of  the  water  the 
right  of  way  for  any  one  who  has  legs  to  walk. 
And,  armed  with  a  guidebook,  one  can  correctly 
pick  out  the  establishments,  providing  he  begins 
at  the  right  end.  I  once  rode  backward  in  a 
diligence  through  the  Tyrol,  following  in  my 
Baedeker  the  various  old  castles  marked  at  the 
right  and  left  of  us.  I  found  every  one  of  them, 
nor  was  my  satisfaction  any  the  less  complete 
when  I  realised  that  my  right-hand  ones  were 
really  those  on  the  left  in  the  guide. 

There  is  a  Handbook  of  Newport  with  a  pic- 
=+874-*-: 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

ture  on  the  cover  of  two  Puritans  sitting  under 
a  tree,  while  an  Indian  stands  back  of  them, 
watching  the  bathers  in  the  abbreviated  attire 
of  to-day  passing  down  to  the  beach.  They  all 
three  look  rather  glum,  but  they  need  not  if  they 
are  true  disciples  of  Roger  Williams.  It  was  in 
1638  that  this  excellent  man,  exasperated  by  the 
bigotry  of  Boston,  fled  to  Rhode  Island,  purchas- 
ing the  country  round  about  here  from  the  In- 
dians for  forty  fathoms  of  white  beads,  ten  coats, 
and  twenty  hoes.  It  is  difficult  to  estimate  the 
length  of  forty  fathoms  of  white  beads,  but  if  the 
amount  is  in  any  way  proportionate  to  ten  coats 
and  twenty  hoes  the  purchase  would  be  termed 
by  a  Wall  Street  man  as  a  "  good  buy." 

This  is  one  of  the  reasons  that  the  Puritans 
need  not  look  so  sadly  at  the  gay  bathers,  all  of 
whom  must  give  untold  fathoms  of  beads  for  a 
single  acre  of  Roger  Williams's  purchase.  More 
than  that,  any  bather  present  on  the  frontispiece 
would  give  his  suit  then  and  there — if  permitted 
—and  all  his  clothes  left  in  the  bathhouse  to  claim 
direct  descendance  from  those  under  the  tree,  or 
even  from  the  Indian  with  the  hoe,  for  Indians 
are  older  in  ancestry  than  Puritans.  And,  more 
than  all  that,  the  mingling  of  redskin  and  early 
settler  and  modern  bather,  together  with  the 
thriving  shopkeepers  of  the  ugly  frame  houses,  is 
-j-275-1- 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

but  a  carrying  out  of  the  plan  of  Roger  Williams. 
He  offered  freedom  to  all  people,  and  the  perse- 
cuted of  the  Colonies  came  to  him,  even  as  in 
Newport  of  this  day  there  is  a  varied  assortment 
of  classes  who,  from  reasons  of  pleasure  or  profit, 
find  the  port  a  shelter. 

Sympathetic  as  we  were  with  those  who  take 
their  pleasure  by  acquiring  profits,  we  settled  in 
the  hotel  on  the  Square,  far  from  the  fashionable 
portion,  fearing  terribly  that  we  would  be  un- 
comfortable and  rejoicing  exceedingly  that  we 
were  not.  It  was  quite  early  in  the  day  and 
there  was  some  talk  of  our  going  on,  but  so 
violent  a  dispute  arose  between  a  bell-boy  and  a 
maid,  cleaning  the  brass  strips  on  the  hall  steps, 
over  the  hours  of  the  ferries  to  the  mainland,  that 
it  was  too  late  to  take  anything — except  rooms — 
by  the  time  they  had  finished. 

The  argument  was  not  varied,  settling  down  to 
a  "  five-thirty  "  from  the  maid,  with  every  rub 
of  the  brass  work,  and  "  six  "  from  the  bell-boy, 
when  he  had  a  moment  to  give  to  it.  "  Five 
thirty — six.  Five  thirty — six  "  they  went  on, 
until  we  decided  to  have  the  baggage  taken  off. 
They  ceased  then,  so  the  argument  may  have 
been  occasioned  by  a  previous  arrangement  with 
the  proprietor. 

I  whisked  around  into  the  shopping  street  of 
-+276-J- 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

the  town  to  do  my  usual  amount  of  looking. 
This  was  not  Bellevue  Avenue,  which  is  patro- 
nised only  by  the  summer  visitors,  but  a  narrow 
way  that  the  city  once  hoped  to  widen,  but  a 
woman  owning  one  of  the  buildings  refused  to 
have  her  house  moved,  and  as  chivalry  was  still 
extant  in  those  days,  and  "  condemning "  un- 
known, the  thoroughfare  has  remained  as  delight- 
ful as  Waterport  Street  of  Gibraltar. 

Like  Gibraltar  it  was  full  of  sailormen  of  all 
nations,  starting  in  to  celebrate  Saturday  even- 
ing, after  the  usual  formula.  Our  own  Jackies 
lend  a  tone,  for  three  forts  and  a  torpedo-boat 
station  are  within  gunshot  of  the  town,  a  battle- 
ship always  in  port,  and  sailors  from  many 
yachts  add  to  an  excessive  cleanliness  of  appear- 
ance, although  the  purity  does  not  extend  itself 
to  speech. 

As  though  there  was  need  for  it,  the  Salvation 
Army  gathered  in  the  Square,  singing  to  cymbal 
and  cornet.  This  was  after  dinner,  as  we  sat  in 
the  broad  window,  under  a  sort  of  arch  of  chamois 
gloves,  which  I  had  washed  out  and  pinned  to 
the  curtains.  The  cabbies  were  below  counting 
over  their  fares  for  the  day,  and  anathematising 
this  new  desire  of  Americans  to  walk. 

"  Oh,   you   must   be   a    lover   of   the    Lamb," 
shrilled  the  Army,  "  or  you  can't  go  to  Heaven 
-J-277-I- 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

when  you  die,"  the  threat  gathering  a  fair  com- 
plement of  sailors  and  their  girls.  How  well  I 
remember  the  hoots  that  assailed  the  first  en- 
deavours of  these  uniformed  men  and  women, 
of  their  arraignment  by  the  clergy,  of  their  con- 
demnation as  public  nuisances.  Now  they  are 
accepted  by  the  noblest  dame  and  the  meanest 
roisterer  with  a  respect  which  is  granted  the 
highest  mission. 

The  deep  whistle  of  a  boat  divested  the  Army 
of  many  of  its  audience.  The  cabbies  leaped  to 
their  perches,  and  we  left  our  bower  of  gloves  to 
join  the  nightly  rush  to  see  the  Fall  River  boat 
come  in.  The  smell  of  autumn  was  in  the  air, 
long  lines  of  covered  broughams  and  victorias 
were  waiting  to  be  rolled  on  board  and  carried 
down  to  New  York.  Passengers  were  going  on, 
attended  by  ladies' -maids  and  footmen,  and  ham- 
pered by  jewel-cases  held  firmly  in  their  hands. 

On  a  level  with  the  dock  was  the  storage  deck, 
and  hundreds  of  barrels  of  fish,  packed  in  ice, 
were  going  down  to  the  city  in  a  whirlwind  of 
haste  to  see  the  sights.  The  boatswain  stood  with 
watch  in  hand  as  the  stevedores  ran  back  and 
forth  with  their  trucks.  They  were  given  so 
many  minutes  to  store  away  the  morning's  catch. 
The  grind  of  small  iron  wheels  was  incessant, 
sweating  bodies  leaped  through  the  air  at  the 
-H-  278  -e- 


Lm^'^^m 

f      N**»o«T         ?G\  (  *<  ^•'''^W,5'<0VlJl&iO 

^  '  V^t  *  > 


A    HIT    OK    THK    SHOKK    LINK    AT    \K\VI»()HT 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

slight  rise  of  the  gangplank;  some  slipped,  but 
righted  themselves  before  the  long  trail  was  upon 
them.  I  do  not  know  what  stevedores  receive  for 
this  herculean  labour  under  stress  of  time,  but 
whatever  it  is,  they  deserve  it. 

"Do  they  always  get  through?"  I  asked  a  by- 
stander, who  looked  as  though  he  never  did  any 
work  in  his  life,  but  took  an  enormous  pride  in 
the  capacity  of  others.  "  Always,"  he  answered, 
"  but  they're  kinda  tired  afterwards." 

"  Kinda!" 

There  were  little  eating-places  on  one  side  the 
long  causeway  which  connects  the  town  with  the 
dock.  On  the  other  side  was  the  quiet  water, 
with  boats  at  anchor,  showing  milk-white  lanterns 
of  safety.  There  was  not  so  much  safety  in  the 
eating-places,  yet  there  was  kindness.  One  of 
the  foreign  tars,  in  the  course  of  his  meal — which 
he  must  have  been  too  muddled  to  enjoy — fell 
off  his  high  stool  and  lay  on  the  floor  contentedly, 
with  his  fork  clutched  correctly  in  his  hand,  until 
a  fresh-faced  waiter  lifted  him  back,  when  he 
went  on  with  his  supper  as  though  this  were  the 
proper  thing  to  do  between  courses. 

The  scene  was  not  Newport  of  the  Cliffs  or 
Bellevue  Avenue  or  the  great  farms,  and  it  was 
like  our  perversity  to  enjoy  the  very  thing  for 
which  the  famous  resort  was  least  noted.  But 


AMONG  THE  PURITANS 

we  went  to  rest  feeling  that  we  had  "  done  "  the 
town  more  thoroughly  than  if  we  had  been  hedged 
about  by  pomp  and  circumstance.  And  before 
he  returned  to  the  hotel,  the  Illustrator,  I  regret 
to  say,  attended  the  movies. 


280 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  Last  Sketch  and  a  Night  Run 

THIS  is  the  last  chapter.  It  was  my  plan  to 
write  thirteen,  as  I  have  faith  in  the  lucky  num- 
ber, but  my  verbosity  has  ever  been  my  curse. 

I  did  not  admit  to  W that  the  Fall  River 

boat,  going  down  to  New  York,  had  set  my  heart 
to  singing,  not  from  any  love  of  boats,  but,  upon 
analysis,  from  the  thought  that  it  was  going  to 
New  York,  that  it  would  be  turning  out  its 
sleepy  passengers  just  as  we  were  waking,  and 
that  it  would  be  back  in  Newport,  rolling  off 
winter  hats,  before  we  had  passed  the  police 
station  in  Bronx  Park — which  cheerily  marks  the 
entrance  to  the  city  proper. 

I  was  finding  that  the  deep  regret  occasioned 
by  the  swift  approaching  end  of  our  tour  was 
blended  with  another  regret  that  we  were  not 
ending  it  more  swiftly.  I  looked  at  our  buff 
motor-car  reprovingly,  as  the  hotel  porter  was 
packing  in  the  things.  I  knew  it  was  not  its 
fault,  but  ours,  that  we  had  straggled  over  the 
route,  yet  I  was  unconsciously  despising  it  be- 
cause a  Sound  steamer  could  so  outstrip  it. 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

While  I  did  not  express  this  uncontrollable 
longing  to  get  on,  I  noticed  that  the  Illustrator 
was  ready  earlier  than  usual,  that  he  had  put  on 
his  best  motor-coat,  and  that  the  chauffeur  had 
removed  his  derby  from  the  hatbox  and  was 
carrying  it  in  a  paper-bag  among  the  pedals. 
He  made  no  mention  of  this,  but  he  affirmed  that 
the  engine  was  working  better  than  ever,  and  he 
thought  we  would  make  Bridgeport  early.  It 
was  plain  that  Bridgeport  stood  for  New  York, 
and,  once  there,  that  we  had  but  to  turn  the 
corner  to  find  ourselves  before  our  apartment 
house,  exchanging  greetings  with  the  elevator- 
boy — if  he  himself  had  not  been  exchanged  since 
our  departure  for  another  elevator-boy,  which 
was  highly  probable. 

In  spite  of  this,  the  Call  of  the  City  did  not 
outroar  the  Call  of  the  Road.  We  had  a  great 
day  ahead  of  us,  and,  although  it  consisted,  for 
a  time,  of  riding  about  on  ferries  in  an  effort  to 
get  started,  the  joy  from  the  revolution  of  the 
wheels  was  not  entirely  occasioned  by  the  fact 
that  we  were  revoluting  toward  home. 

Our  first  ferry  took  us  to  Conanicut  Island. 
It  would  not  have  taken  us  had  our  motor  not 
raced  to  be  among  the  first  in  line,  for  many 
are  called  but  few  are  chosen  on  this  poorly 
equipped  route.  They  were  not  all  motors  that 
.-»-  282  -*- 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

were  waiting.  Many  grocery  wagons  were  going 
off  with  their  families  for  an  airing.  I  did  not 
take  these  tradesmen,  who  had  descended  from 
the  wide  front  seat  to  walk  about  the  ferry,  for 
what  they  were.  There  was  one  Englishman  who, 
in  appearance,  was  as  perfectly  fitted  to  enter 
the  front  as  the  back  door  of  the  great  houses 
on  the  Cliff.  He  was  confident,  considerate,  quiet, 
and  awed  by  no  man.  I  watched  his  wife  with  a 
like  interest,  and  even  when  she  regained  the 
high  seat,  to  gather  up  the  reins  thrown  upon 
the  back  of  their  fine  horse,  I  found  her 
entirely  suited  to  what  is  generally  termed  a  better 
class  than  her  own.  America  has  done  this  for 
them,  and  I  rejoiced  in  my  country  which  brings 
assurance  with  success. 

We  outstripped  the  carts  on  the  run  across  the 
island  to  the  second  ferry  which  carried  us  to  the 
mainland.  This  was  a  more  prepossessing  ves- 
sel with  an  upper  deck,  on  which  sat  serving- 
maids  coming  home  from  mass.  They  were  at- 
tended— a  friendship  of  the  moment,  I  fancy- 
by  soldiers  in  khaki,  carrying  bags  of  mail,  and 
all  were  chaffing  one  another,  the  women,  as 
usual,  hitting  at  those  who  employed  them,  while 
the  soldiers  avoided  the  subject  in  a  sort  of  mili- 
tary loyalty. 

"  It's  not  me  that  would  be  blacking  boots," 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

said  a  fine  Irish  girl,   "  if  I   served  my  coun- 
try." 

And  while  the  orderly  squirmed  he  made  no 
reply.  I  stared  coldly  at  the  maid  who,  from  the 
instinct  of  her  race,  was  inciting  to  violence,  but, 
to  my  unmilitary  mind,  she  was  speaking  more 
than  half  the  truth. 

In  the  gay  lithographs  that  are  hung  out  he- 
fore  an  enlisting  station  there  are  no  enticing 
scenes  of  a  soldier  valeting  his  superior  officer. 
He  stands  in  the  lithograph,  brilliant  in  uniform, 
with  a  gun  in  his  hand,  and  sometimes  a  short 
sword  pendent  from  his  belt.  And  while  I 
haven't  an  idea  how  they  could  arrange  matters 
other  than  they  do — for  I  suppose  a  colonel  must 
have  studs  in  his  shirt — I  should  think  it  would 
be  fairer  if  the  recruiting  officer  hinted  upon  this 
possibility  of  menial  service. 

The  Illustrator  said,  when  I  commented  upon 
the  matter,  that  if  I  "  put  it  in  the  book  "  some 
one  would  write  me  a  letter.  And  while  I  enjoy 
letters,  and  love  to  have  them  shoved  under  the 
hall  door  by  the  elevator-boy,  with  a  single  ting 
of  the  bell,  to  show  that  it  is  not  important,  I  hope 
I  shall  not  get  one  about  this.  But  if  you  must 
send  me  one,  have  it  arrive  with  the  morning's 
mail  before  the  Illustrator  is  awake. 

I  was  troubled  about  it  as  far  as  Narragansett 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

Pier,  for  I  suppose  we  all  like  to  be  liked,  and 
for  all  the  engaging  qualities  of  this  famous  re- 
sort my  mind  could  have  remained  ill  at  ease.  It 
is  a  mistake  to  form  too  definite  an  idea  of  a 
place.  I  have  always  imagined  it  a  sparkling 
pier,  gay  red  parasols  sticking  up  out  of  the  sand, 
bejewelled  ladies  sitting  under  them,  and  men 
and  women,  like  the  front  cover  of  Life  in 
August,  standing  sole  deep  in  the  water.  We 
saw  some  of  these  things,  but  not  to  the  extent 
that  I  hoped. 

Perhaps  I  did  not  look  about  me  as  I  should 
when  I  descended  from  the  car  to  make  a  little 
promenade.  But  it  was  difficult  to  lift  my  eyes 
from  the  ground,  for  I  was  seeking  the  diamond 
horseshoes,  pearl  dog's-heads,  and  sapphire  alli- 
gators, which  are  continually  being  lost  at  Narra- 
gansett  Pier.  I  have  never  been  fortunate  in 
finding  things,  but  I  figured  that,  with  close  at- 
tention, I  ought  to  pick  up  some  small  object 
in  proportion  to  the  vast  number  of  jewels  that 
the  New  York  papers  claim  are  disappearing 
there  daily. 

Yet  I  found  nothing,  finally  bumping  into  an 
old  gentleman  who,  at  least,  had  a  ruby  nose. 
We  were  at  that  moment  in  front  of  a  huge 
brown  house,  such  as  Thackeray  would  have  writ- 
ten about,  if  not  admired,  and  which,  upon  in- 
-j-285-f- 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

quiry  of  the  ruby-nosed  one,  was  called  Kenyon's 
Folly. 

He  told  me  all  about  it  as  we  edged  along 
like  two  crabs,  I  trying  to  get  away  from  him 
and  he  trying  not  to  let  me.  I  do  not  know 
why  I  am  always  pursued  by  such  unlovely  types, 

unless  it  is  to  drive  me  back  to  W ,  with  a 

feeling  that  things  could  be  worse.  So  my  ex- 
perience in  glittering  Narragansett  was  limited 
to  a  history  of  Captain  Kenyon,  who  spent  what 
he  made  out  of  steamers  on  a  palace  that  event- 
ually served  as  a  lunatic  asylum  for  his  exas- 
perated family.  The  moral  being,  that  sailors 
should  never  go  ashore. 

The  guidebooks  say  there  is  little  of  interest 
between  the  Pier  and  Stonington.  I  am  always 
glad  to  read  this,  for  it  averts  the  necessity  of 
watching  for  monuments.  The  Illustrator  never 
reads  up  his  guidebook  until  he  has  covered  the 
ground,  and  he  has  a  solemn  way  of  looking  at 
me  from  over  the  top  of  his  book  and  saying, 
"  Did  you  see  the  monument  on  the  lower  road?  " 
All  of  which  forces  me  to  answer  that  I  did  see 
it  whether  I  did  or  not,  and  I  do  not  like  to  do 
this,  as  an  untruth  is  corroding  to  the  soul. 

With  no  monuments  to  look  for  I  could  now 
lie  back  and  let  the  first  falling  leaves  blow  into 
my  face,  and  give  time  to  the  wild  asters  and  the 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

early  goldenrod.  When  a  roadbed  is  good  and 
through  a  pleasant  countryside,  how  can  any 
guide  find  it  devoid  of  interest.  "  I  must  have 
time  to  reflect,"  I  said  to  myself.  "  I  must  sum 
up  matters,  I  must  arrive  at  a  decision  concern- 
ing such  things  along  the  way  as  are  still  un- 
explained. About  those  arrows,  for  instance. 
But,  good  heavens,  there  hasn't  been  any  time 
to  think  back.  It's  all  been  noticing,  admiring, 
and  going  on." 

Even  the  subject  of  arrows,  which  are  put  up 
to  point  the  way,  diverges  into  another  branch  of 
reflection.  We  were  passing  a  number  along  the 
shore,  green  in  colour,  and  shaped  like  a  fish. 
And  I  was  now  wondering  if  an  arrow  could  have 
been  modelled  in  the  first  place  from  a  fish.  Not 
a  fish  with  much  eating  on  it,  still  one  with  a  fair 
head  and  a  very  good  tail. 

Every  object  designed  by  man  is  not  entirely 
original  with  him,  but  suggested  by  some  earlier 
form.  I  sat  back  in  the  car  and  reviewed  my 
designing  of  clothes,  and,  while  it  was  good  for 
my  vanity,  I  was  obliged  to  admit  that  every 
frill  or  tuck  or  gusset  (I  say  gusset  to  please  the 
men,  as  it  is  all  they  know  of  feminine  apparel) 
had  been  worn  to  advantage  ever  since  there  was 
first  felt  a  necessity  for  costumes.  I  suppose, 
really,  that  the  only  entirely  original  sartorial 
-j-287-*- 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

creations  were  those  "  figge-tree  leaf  breeches," 
which,  after  1590,  were  decided  to  be  too  inele- 
gant to  talk  about. 

I  touch  upon  this  subject  as  it  is  allied  feebly 
with  the  tour  that  we  were  now  closing.  I  very 
much  want  other  people  to  follow  this  same  route, 
partly  for  their  own  happiness  and  partly  out  of 
compliment  to  us.  And  I  hope  that  you  will 
not  say,  "  we  want  something  original,"  for  you 
will  not  be  doing  anything  original  if  you  keep  to 
the  road — which  is  the  proper  place  for  an  auto- 
mobile. We  were  far  from  the  first  to  plan  this 
itinerary,  and  we  are  glad  we  were  not  the  first, 
as  that  trip  was,  probably,  very  fearful  "  going." 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  sneering  at  the  "  beaten 
track,"  and  we  all  talk  about  wanting  to  get  off 
it.  But  the  beaten  track  is  more  suggestive 
of  a  level  way,  and  ensuing  motoring  comforts, 
than  the  unbroken  trail.  Besides  that,  I  believe 
that  the  beaten  track  embraces  most  of  the  beauty 
spots  of  the  country,  otherwise  it  would  not  have 
become  smooth  by  the  feet  of  the  pilgrims.  They 
would  have  learned  that  there  were  more  lovely 
spots  elsewhere  and  they  would  have  gone  to 
them.  For  it  is  instinctive  in  us  to  find  the  best. 

I  was  so  intent  upon  this  subject  that  I  missed 
the  only  monument  on  the  way,  or  the  only  one 
that  W saw.  He  looked  back  at  me,  re- 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

moving  a  leaf  from  his  mouth  before  he  could 
reproach  me  for  not  observing  the  marking  of 
the  state  line  between  Rhode  Island  and  Con- 
necticut. '  You  are  in  Connecticut,"  he  said,  as 
though  this  was  a  special  blessing,  but  he  could 
not  be  severe,  for  it  was  like  saying,  "  you  are  at 
home,"  and  no  one  can  mouth  "  home "  in  an 
ugly  fashion. 

We  were  nowhere  near  home  and  we  knew 
it,  but  Connecticut  is  a  neighbour  whom  we  visit 
every  Sunday,  and  while  we  did  not  have  any 
great  affection  for  this  far-off  end  of  the  state, 
we  held  it  in  as  much  esteem  as  we  might  a  second 
cousin  once  removed. 

The  state  line  is  at  Westerly,  and  I  may  have 
missed  it  by  looking  at  acres  of  dahlias.  The 
labourers  were  cutting  the  blossoms,  and  packing 
them  in  big  boxes  to  send  down  to  the  City,  and 
again  a  strange  rebellion  rose  within  me  that 
they  would  be  looking  out  of  a  Fifth  Avenue  shop- 
window  before  I  could  be  looking  in  at  one.  The 
chauffeur  was  worse  than  I.  He  said  he  thought 
dahlias  were  prettier  in  shops  than  they  were  in 
fields,  and  this  so  savoured  of  the  city  boy  that  I 
feared  he  would  leap  out  at  the  first  railway 
station  to  take  a  train  down. 

As  if  to  tempt  him  further,  we  struck  a  trail 
of  arrows  affixed  to  telegraph  poles,  when  we 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

neared  Stonington,  which  led  us  directly  to  the 
"  depot,"  and  which  stopped  there  with  the  last 
arrow  pointing  to  the  ticket  office.  Yet  this 
misuse  of  an  emblem  which  we  motorists  have 
taken  entirely  to  ourselves  outraged  us,  and  we 
again  became  fierce  partisans  of  the  road,  the 
last  arrow  at  the  ticket  office  winning  the  chauf- 
feur over  to  our  side.  I  have  seen  a  great  deal 
of  money  go  into  a  driver's  pocket,  but  little  come 
out  of  it. 

There  had  been  other  arrows  at  branch  roads 
at  our  left,  pointing  toward  Watch  Hill.  Watch 
Hill  is  one  of  those  resorts  that  we  heard  about 
in  the  West,  when  a  trip  to  New  York  meant 
a  paragraph  in  the  social  column,  and  going  East 
for  the  summer  sent  a  reporter  to  your  door  to 
write  up  your  wardrobe. 

I  never  got  to  Watch  Hill,  but  my  fond  little 
neighbour  spent  a  month  there.  She  had  a  bath- 
ing suit  to  wear  into  the  OCEAN.  It  was  dark 
blue  flannel  with  white  braid.  One  could  hardly 
call  it  a  novel  suit  either  in  material,  colour,  or 
cut,  but  I  longed  for  it,  and  I  thought  of  her  all 
July.  I  dreamed  myself  there,  in  blue  flannel 
and  white  braid  also,  saving  her  from  drowning — 
saving  every  one  from  drowning. 

When  she  returned  the  bathing  suit  was  as 
fresh  as  ever,  for  she  had  been  afraid  to  go  into 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

the  ocean,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that,  with 
my  dreams,  I  had  the  more  exciting  summer 
after  all. 

I  have  had  no  mental  association  with  this  re- 
sort since,  until  last  June,  when  my  French  pro- 
fessor wrote,  "  The  school  is  sad  without  you," 
and  asked  for  letters  of  introduction  to  Watch 
Hill  cottagers.  I  was  obliged  to  admit  that  I 
had  known  but  one  Watch  Hill  cottager,  and  she 
was  a  young  woman  of  ten,  who  had  summered 
there  many  years  ago  and  didn't  get  her  bathing 
suit  wet.  It  was  not  easy  to  express  this  in  French 
— in  my  French — the  professor  taking  the  pleas- 
antry about  bathing  suits  as  the  end-of-the-century 
joke  regarding  ladies  who  pose  upon  the  sand 
for  the  benefit  of  mankind.  Or,  in  the  words  of 
the  old  song,  those  who  "  hang  their  clothes  on 
a  hickory  limb  and  don't  go  near  the  water." 

He  answered  my  letter  in  what  he  thought 
was  a  like  vein,  dwelling  upon  the  reprehensible 
on  the  plage,  and  I  so  feared  meeting  him  if  we 
followed  one  of  the  arrows,  and  of  ensuing  diffi- 
culties of  speech,  that  it  was  no  temptation  to 
pass  them  by — and  Watch  Hill  went  out  of  my 
life  again. 

I  do  not  mean  to  speak  lightly  of  him,  for  I 
stopped  at  the  school  recently,  to  see  if  it  had 
recovered  from  its  sadness,  and  found  that  he  had 
-*-  291  -*- 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

been  among  the  first  to  go  to  the  war — and 
among  the  first  to  be  shot.  I  stood  for  an  in- 
stant in  the  doorway  after  I  had  gained  the  street, 
and  to  the  astonishment  of  a  conventional  gentle- 
man, trying  to  pass  me,  I  repeated  the  gallant, 
Gallic  phrase  this  the  little  professor  had  earlier 
applied  to  me :  "  L'ecole  est  triste  sans  vous." 
It  wasn't  must  of  a  service  for  the  dead. 

We  lunched  on  a  battlefield,  for  the  Pequots 
had  warred  with  the  Colonists  through  this  part 
of  the  country.  The  meal  was  not  taken  in  picnic 
fashion,  but  at  the  old  Stonington  Manor  set 
back  among  fine  trees,  which  were  too  young 
for  the  Indians  to  have  hidden  behind,  but  offered 
pleasant  shelter  for  young  lovers. 

It  was  early  for  luncheon,  but  we  could  not 
withstand  the  charm  of  that  old  house  once  we 
were  within  its  forbidding  walls.  One  would  not 
expect  such  an  exquisite  display  of  taste  in  fur- 
nishings, to  judge  by  the  Victorian  exterior.  An 
old  negro  bowed  us  into  the  house  and  waved 
me  up  the  wide  staircase  to  the  sleeping  rooms 
above  "  jes  for  a  look  about."  The  doors  of 
many  of  the  rooms  were  open,  and  I  walked  in 
and  out  of  the  unoccupied  apartments,  fearing  to 
awake.  Here  was  a  hotel  furnished  not  only  as 
a  hotel  should  be,  but  as  a  home  should  be.  It 
was  as  though  the  hosts  had  stepped  out  and 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

would  return  at  any  moment.  And  they  would 
be  nice  hosts  who  would  enjoy  my  walking  about, 
and  not  arrest  me  for  burglarising. 

Each  room  was  individual  in  its  colour  and 
style,  each  expressing  a  personality,  not  one 
personality  for  them  all,  but  of  several,  as  though 
the  occupant  had  as  much  right  to  a  room  to  fit 
his  tastes  as  he  had  to  a  choice  of  viands  at 
table.  Fresh  flowers  were  on  the  mantelpieces, 
hairpins  in  little  tufted  cushions  which  one  can 
stab  into,  and  coloured  pins,  such  as  it  is  a  sin 
to  steal,  on  chintz  trays. 

I  sat  down  in  my  room — it  was  in  deep  rose— 
and  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  stream  on 
the  estate  twisting  itself,  like  the  Indians  of  old, 
among  the  trees.  How  fortunate  that  we  had 
not  begun  our  tour  by  going  through  Bronx 
Park  and  on  to  Bridgeport,  New  Haven,  and 
Stonington.  For,  if  we  had  done  that  I  should 
have  met  the  rose-room  earlier,  and  never  gone 
on  at  all.  How  unfortunate  was  it,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  on  the  last  day  I  should  see  this  perfect 
bedroom,  for  New  York  was  now  calling  me  while 
the  rose  draperies  were  softly  folding  me  about 
and  bidding  me  stay. 

I  groped  in  my  mind  for  some  sustaining  philo- 
sophical thought,  but  none  came.  Only  the 
chauffeur's  de^by  rose  before  me,  an  ugly  thing, 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

and  his  proud  air,  when  he  would  wear  it  home 
to  tell  his  family  all  about  the  trip.  I  wondered 
if  the  tan  bedroom  with  the  lacquer  furniture 
would  hold  out  any  inducement  to  him.  But  I 

felt  that  it  would  not.  W found  me  there 

after  a  time,  and  while  he  admired  the  black 
apartment  with  the  green  parokeets,  which  I  had 
picked  out  for  him,  he  thought  if  I  had  some 
luncheon  I  would  feel  differently  about  it. 

After  luncheon,  which  was  on  inexpensive  but 
lovely  china,  it  occurred  to  me  that  this  Stoning- 
ton  Manor  was  going  to  remain  there,  and 
that  some  day  (on  that  future  day  when  there 
would  be  "  plenty  of  time ")  I  could  go  there 
and  rest  for  a  while. 

We  motored  off,  only  to  back  back  again  at- 
tracted by  loud  if  cracked  shouts  from  the  an- 
cient servitor,  who  was  waving  my  jacket.  It 
had  clung  to  the  newell  post  under  the  impres- 
sion that  the  home  was  ours.  The  barkeeper, 
who  was  fleeter  of  foot  than  the  old  darky,  ran 
through  the  woods  with  it,  and  while  the  Illus- 
trator claims  that  I  have  mentioned  the  bar- 
keeper in  this  graceful  fashion  to  set  at  rest  the 
mind  of  any  future  patron  about  the  nightly 
highball,  I  am  sure  the  reader  can  only  be  grate- 
ful to  me. 

We  are  always  glad  to  hear  of  barkeepers  doing 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

friendly  acts  like  this.  It  gives  a  tone  to  their 
profession  and  justifies  us  in  patronising  them. 
They  come  out  very  well,  nowadays,  both  in 
dramas  and  books,  running  a  close  second  in 
popularity  to  thieves.  And  never,  never  have  I 
seen  a  barkeeper  in  a  moving  picture  take  a 
drink,  or  offer  one  to  others.  His  sole  duty  ap- 
pears to  be  to  warn  mankind  against  the  evil, 
which  gives  him,  of  course,  the  "  sympathy  of  the 
audience,"  but  is  a  little  hard  on  the  saloon  keeper 
who  employs  him. 

W aroused  me  from  my  reverie  over  the 

liquor  business,  to  hope  that  I  was  going  to  have 
some  history  in  this  last  chapter.  He  has  a  for- 
mula for  motoring  literature.  It  should  be  about 
two-eighths  road,  one-eighth  weather,  one-eighth 
personalities,  and  four-eighths  history.  This  is 
all  very  well  for  him  who  doesn't  have  to  read 
up  on  these  things,  and  who  is  modestly  disin- 
terested in  himself.  But  I  am  a  modernist.  I 
am  interested  in  men  and  women  of  to-day.  To 
go  into  it  more  deeply,  I  am  a  suffragist  (sort 
of  a  one)  and  am  interested  in  women,  and  above 
all  I  am  an  individualist,  interested  in  myself. 
It's  a  creed  with  me.  And  I  beg,  if  you  have 
grown  maddened  by  the  way  the  I's  flash  along 
like  a  picket  fence,  that  you  will  remember  this 
is  only  the  observance  of  my  religion. 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

But  to  please  the  Illustrator:  do  not  fail,  as 
you  follow  this  route,  to  observe  the  Pequot 
Battle  Monument  at  Mystic;  nor,  as  you  ap- 
proach Groton,  the  splendid  shaft  of  stone  which 
commemorates  the  battle  of  Groton  Heights. 
To  save  me,  I  cannot  remember  seeing  either  of 
these.  In  Mystic,  which  is  plain  before  me  as 
a  rare  old  town,  I  was  on  the  lookout  for  a  friend 
of  mine  who  has  kennels,  and  who  sends  me  cal- 
endars with  adorable  puppies'  heads  sticking  up 
over  January. 

I  have  never  met  this  friend,  but  once  I  said 
something  in  print,  that  she  liked,  about  a  horse, 
and,  while  she  was  sorry  it  was  not  about  dogs, 
in  which  she  specialises,  she  feels  that  I  am  an 
animal  lover,  and  decorates  my  desk  yearly  with 
her  welcome  gift. 

There  is  no  excuse  for  my  not  seeing 
the  monument  at  Groton,  except  that  I  was  peer- 
ing about  for  the  boys  of  Groton  School.  Famous 
boys  come  from  Groton,  or  perhaps  I  should 
say  famous  men  develop  from  boys  who  went  to 
Groton.  While  at  school  they  were  not  unusual, 
except,  as  a  rule,  being  unusually  bad  or  un- 
usually dull.  I  like  to  see  boys  at  this  stage. 
I  feel  that  each  one  of  them  is  a  little  embryo 
monument  of  their  day.  They  may  never  leave 
the  world  anything  but  a  small  round  stone, 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

which  heads  their  grave,  but,  again,  they  may 
mark  their  generation  with  the  gift  of  a  great 
intellect.  An  intellect  that  soars  above  our  little 
workaday  minds,  but  which  we  can  look  up  to, 
yes,  and  aspire  to,  and  point  out  to  posterity. 

That  I  think  is  a  real  monument,  quite  as  great 
as  (to  quote  directly  from  the  guide)  "The  Obe- 
lisk— on  the  east  side  of  the  river  (ferry  4c.)  — 
erected  to  commemorate  the  burning  of  the  town 
by  Arnold,  and  the  massacre  of  Fort  Griswold  on 
Sept.  6th,  1781  (view  from  the  top;  adm.  10c.)." 
Pretty  things  to  commemorate! 

But  we  saw  no  Groton  boys,*  and  my  interest 
was  diverted  from  them  by  a  fear  that  we  might 
miss  the  ferry  across  to  New  London.  One  al- 
ways speaks  of  a  ferry  as  the  ferry,  as  though 
there  would  never  be  another,  and,  while  we  do 
not  dash  our  heads  against  a  subway  post  when 
we  miss  an  express,  we  take  on  the  grief  of  those 
with  a  Lost  Cause  when  we  see  one  of  these  flat 
creatures  leaving  the  slip. 

We  got  the  ferry,  and  were  held  up  on  the 
other  side  for  the  long  train  to  pass  which  was 
going  down  to  New  York.  We  could  see  happy 
New  Yorkers  at  the  windows  who  would  get 
there  ahead  of  us.  It  was  very  trying  to  our 
young  driver.  Even  with  a  three-dollar-and- 
fifty-cent  fare,  he  might  have  deserted  us  but 

*  I  am  glad  I  told  the  truth  about  those  boys.  But  if  I  had  rhapso- 
dised over  their  appearance!  As  278  letter  writers  have  informed  me, 
the  school  is  at  Groton,  Mass. 

-^297- 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

that  I  had  removed  his  derby  from  among  the 
pedals,  and  had  my  feet  on  it.  His  nostrils  did 
not  quiver,  for  he  was  not  the  kind  of  a  boy  to 
have  quivering  nostrils.  If  they  had  quivered  he 
would  have  been  a  bad  chauffeur,  and  we  still 
would  have  been  sitting  in  the  Vermont  mud. 
But  he  scrouched  down  with  a  sort  of  groan,  and 

acting  on  an  impulse  (for  W had  gone  to 

buy  the  New  York  papers,  and  I  could  indulge 
myself  in  impulses)  I  asked  him,  in  a  hasty 
whisper,  if  he  was  in  love. 

And  he  was! 

Of  course  he  wanted  to  get  back  to  her,  and 
of  course  I  wanted  him  to,  and  before  the  New 
York  papers  were  plunked  down  at  my  feet  I 
had  more  than  suggested  that  we  reach  the  City 
that  night.  He  was  at  the  wheel  for  the  next 
two  hours  while  the  Illustrator  read  headlines 
with  difficulty.  Now  and  then  he  would  look 
at  the  speedometer  and  at  the  boy,  who  would 
pull  down  the  throttle  hurriedly — and  twitch  it 
up  again  by  degrees. 

We  scarcely  saw  New  London.  We  included 
it  in  the  itinerary  because  it  is  the  home  of  Ameri- 
can yachting  and  boat  racing,  where  every  inland 
motorist  should  linger.  Before  this  metropolitan 
fever  had  swept  over  me  I  had  hoped  to  visit 
the  little  schoolhouse  where  Nathan  Hale  had 
-*-  298  -*-; 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

taught.  He  is  one  of  my  heroes,  and  frequently 
I  have  a  "  pretend  "  to  myself,  which  consists  of 
leading  a  small  boy  of  my  own  about  whose  name 
is  Nathan. 

Once  upon  a  time  I  knew  a  Nathan,  although 
his  last  name  was  not  that  of  the  hero,  but  he 
played  his  part  as  well,  for  he  went  into  a  flam- 
ing house  to  save  a  little  boy  (who,  I  hope,  was 
worth  the  saving),  and  he  got  out  the  little  boy 
but  went  back  for  others — and  they  found  him 
the  next  day.  One  does  not  need  a  Christan 
name  for  what  we  call  a  Christian  deed.  And  that 
is  another  reason  why  my  little  boy  is  named 
Nathan  in  my  "pretend." 

The  Illustrator  would  say  to  me  occasionally 
(call  to  me  with  his  hands  hollowed,  as  though  it 
was  impossible  to  be  heard  with  all  this  gravel 
flying)  that  he  had  always  hoped  to  linger  along 
this  route,  and  make  sketches  in  color.  This 
was  after  we  had  swept  through  Lyme  as  though 
it  were  not.  Some  of  America's  greatest  painters 
go  there,  and  at  the  spring  exhibitions  we  see  in 
the  galleries  quiet  houses  bathed  in  moonlight,  or 
a  ragged  road  leading  to  a  hilltop,  the  picture 
stopping  there  and  leaving  us  to  imagine  the 
scene  on  the  other  side — of  the  canvas,  I  suppose 
it  would  be.  Rich  men  pay  many  thousands  of 
dollars  for  them.  The  rich  men  would  hate  most 
r-J-299-*- 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

awfully  to  live  in  these  houses  or  climb  the  ragged 
roads,  but  still  they  buy  the  pictures,  and  it  must 
be,  in  the  rush  of  their  lives,  that  they  find  a  sort 
of  vicarious  peace  in  having  them  on  the  walls 
of  their  great  palaces. 

Yet  the  Illustrator  was  undoubtedly  enjoying 
the  pace.  As  I  have  said  before,  the  mechanic  in 
him  is  ever  striving  to  master  the  artist.  "  A 
sketch ! "  cries  the  artist  within  him  as  we  pass 
a  fine  composition.  "Speed  on!"  urges  the 
mechanic.  And  Art,  figuratively,  climbs  into 
the  back  seat  with  me. 

Art  has  learned  that  sometimes  one  stops  for 
gasoline.  It  was  hoping  we  would  do  so  at  Guil- 
ford,  but  the  tank  showed  no  disposition  for  a 
drink,  and  before  we  knew  it  we  saw,  from  afar, 
the  war  monument  of  East  Rock,  and  knew  that 
we  were  nearing  New  Haven.  For  years  I  have 
seen  that  monument  going  up  to  Boston,  and 
seen  it  coming  back  from  Boston  (I  mean,  I 
was  going  up — the  monument  has  never  stirred), 
and  on  that  remote,  leisurely  day  on  our  way  to 
Stonington,  with  a  stop-off  for  sketching  at 
Lyme,  I  hope  to  get  close  to  that  tall  shaft,  and 
see  what  it  is  all  about. 

The  guidebooks  say  that  New  Haven  is  known 
as  the  "  City  of  Elms,"  but  I  think  it  would  be 
a  poor  way  of  buying  a  railway  ticket  with  this 
-J-300-?- 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

destination  in  view.  The  necessary  sum  poked 
under  the  hars  at  the  railway  station,  and  a  re- 
quest for  "  Yale,"  would  meet  with  instant  re- 
sponse, and,  of  late,  to  judge  by  the  pride  of  the 
citizens,  one  might  get  a  ticket  to  New  Haven  by 
asking  for  "  The  Taft." 

This  would  not  mean  our  ex-President,  although 
he  would  not  be  difficult  to  find  there;  at  least  he 
would  not  be  difficult  to  find  if  he  chanced  to  be 
there  (but  that  is  worn-out  humour).  At  last 
New  Haven  has  a  hotel,  a  big  hotel,  with  auto- 
mobiles from  the  whole  countryside  gathered 
about  at  tea-time,  and  proud  mothers  come  to 
visit  their  sons,  who  are  unhappily  doing  the 
honours. 

There  was  no  escaping  gasoline  in  New  Haven, 
and  as  soon  as  the  car  settled  down  to  its  draught, 
the  young  chauffeur  and  I  witnessed  the  artist 
gaining  the  ascendency  over  the  mechanic.  The 
Illustrator  brought  out  his  materials.  He  was 
ruddy  with  the  rush  through  the  sun,  so  that 
he  looked  very  unlike  an  artist.  And  he  was 
glad  of  that,  as  one  never  outgrows  the  fear  of 
the  ridicule  of  college  boys,  but  he  was  firm  of 
purpose.  He  stalked  toward  the  campus,  mutter- 
ing something  about  the  beauty  of  the  old  church 
on  the  green. 

He   was   going   to   make   a   sketch!    He   was 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

going  to  make  a  sketch!  There  was  no  use  in 
opposing  him.  Artistic  inclinations  feed  on  op- 
position as  many  a  paterfamilias  knows.  I  wasn't 
altogether  sorry,  for  I  could  walk  up  Hillhouse 
Avenue,  which,  next  to  State  Street  in  Portland, 
is  the  loveliest  in  the  world.  But  I  knew  the 
young  driver  was  grieving,  and  doubtless  saying 
to  himself:  "  It's  all  very  well  for  you  two. 
He's  got  you  and  you've  got  him.  But  how 
about  me  and  her?" 

My  friends  were  not  at  home  when  I  rang  a 
Hillhouse  Avenue  doorbell.  I  could  have  lifted 
the  great  knocker,  but  in  these  days  of  electricity 
it  frightens  the  maids  when  the  sound  goes  rat- 
tat-a-tat  through  the  house.  Electricity  has  no 
awe  for  them — that  is  perfectly  simple. 

A  great  football  authority  lives  in  this  house, 
and  once  I  was  taking  tea  with  the  lady  of  the 
manor  while  he  was  having  a  conference  with 
the  team.  She  made  me  go  in  for  a  moment  as 
"  the  boys  would  be  so  proud  to  meet  me."  I 
thought  of  the  thousands  of  girls  who,  with  the 
liberality  of  youth,  would  give  ten  years  of  their 
age  (old  age)  to  meet  those  boys,  to  say  nothing 
of  what  my  own  something-over-thirty  pride  was. 
They  were  so  delightful,  shuffling  uncomfortably, 
and  falling  over  each  other,  and  sitting  down 
gingerly  on  chairs  which  creaked  under  them. 


:        W»urw.^H»,.«_^ 

CK.VTKH    rUriU'H,    NKW    HAVKN    CMKKN 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

The  family  were  entirely  given  over  to  football. 
I  remember  their  huge  son  who,  when  in  strict 
training,  asked  at  luncheon  if  he  could  have  a 
second  cup  of  coffee,  and  the  cold,  amazed  looks 
that  were  turned  upon  him.  He  was  not  even 
answered.  "Oliver  Twist  had  asked  for  more!" 

It  was  quite  a  boy-day  with  me,  and  ever  my 
heart  warmed  toward  our  young  driver  who  had 
never  known  Groton,  never  longed  for  Yale,  and 
yet,  just  like  the  rest  of  them,  was  interested  in 
this  marrying  business — and  would  see  it  through 
long  before  the  university  men  could  man- 
age it. 

With  renewed  resolve  I  hunted  out  the  Illus- 
trator, who  was  also  hunting  me  out.  He  had 
put  away  his  block  of  paper  and  was  back 
to  his  map,  and  he  greeted  me  with  the  elaborate 
manner  which  he  believes  to  be  diplomatic.  He 
asked  me  how  I  felt  and  I  said  I  felt  well,  and  he 
told  me  then,  yawning  casually,  that  the  whole 
distance  from  Newport  to  New  York  was  but 
one  hundred  seventy-seven  miles.  I  stood  still, 
but  my  heart  kept  on  running.  It  was  so  splen- 
did that  he  wanted  to  go  down  to  New  York  that 
night,  and  wanted  me  to  suggest  it.  It  was  not 
splendid  that  he  wanted  me  to  make  the  sugges- 
tion. He  had  his  reason  for  that.  If  anything 
went  wrong,  then  it  would  be  my  fault.  Not  that 
-t-303-*- 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

he  would  blame  me — I  grant  him  a  good  sports- 
man— but  that  I  couldn't  blame  him. 

So  I  said  in  a  very  small  voice,  "  Let's  have  a 
night  ride  to  New  York."  And  he  pretended 
that  he  couldn't  believe  his  ears,  but  I  pointed 
out  that  we  had  not  driven  through  the  night  on 
our  entire  tour,  and  that  it  was  due  "  the  book." 
This  seemed  to  clinch  the  matter.  "  Of  course," 
I  added,  "  we  will  have  to  cut  out  the  history  and 
monuments."  And  he  thought,  striding  toward 
the  car,  that  perhaps  the  reader  would  be  gen- 
erous, since  riding  into  the  night  would  be  so  very 
pleasant  for  us. 

In  the  early  twilight  we  went  toward  Bridge- 
port, taking  the  short  cut  instead  of  going  by  the 
water's  edge  through  Savin  Rock  and  Wood- 
mont.  We  were  punished  for  closing  our  hearts 
to  the  appeal  of  nature  by  suddenly  and  un- 
reasonably getting  lost,  and  rinding  ourselves 
miles  from  Bridgeport  but  near  Derby.  To  this 

day  W cannot  solve  how  he  managed  it,  but 

I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  it  was  caused  by  the 
chauffeur's  hat — like  calling  unto  like.  The 
way  of  the  digressor  is  hard,  I  said  to  the  Illus- 
trator, who  from  a  limited  acquaintance  with  the 
text  thought  I  was  quoting  correctly,  and  said 
there  were  a  lot  of  good  things  in  the  Bible. 

It  made  us  late  for  dinner  at  the  Stratford 
:-*-  304  -*-_ 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

Hotel,  but  was  this  not  a  fitting  ending  to  our 
little  journey  in  the  world?  We  had  generally 
been  late.  It  is  such  a  specialty  of  ours  that  a 
householder  invites  us  to  dine  a  half  hour  ahead 
of  the  other  guests,  and  if  by  any  chance  we 
arrive  at  the  time  given  us,  we  have  a  melancholy 
reward  sitting  in  an  empty  drawing-room  while 
the  hostess  is  getting  herself  fastened  up. 

We  fought  off  the  bell-boys,  who  showed  an 
inclination  to  take  everything  off  the  car,  and 
went  in  to  dinner — which  we  determined  to  make 
a  good  one.  The  chauffeur  insisted  upon  eating 
in  an  Owl  Lunch  across  the  street  so  that  he 
could  keep  his  eye  on  the  machine.  Nothing  but 
the  theft  of  the  automobile  could  separate  him 
much  longer  from  the  home  of  his  birth. 

The  Stratford  owed  us  a  good  dinner.  Once 
before  we  had  gone  to  Bridgeport  to  attend  the 
try-out  of  a  new  comedy.  The  playwright  was 
with  us,  the  manager  and  the  star,  all  so  sick 
with  anxiety  that  we  caught  the  contagion  of 
misery  and  could  only  stare  at  the  courses  as  they 
were  set  down  before  us,  and  make  futile  passes 
with  our  knives  and  forks.  I  remember  how  we 
ate  our  late  supper  at  the  night  lunch  of  the 
chauffeur,  and  how  gay  we  were,  now  that  the 
play  was  over — and  a  "  hit,"  and  how  good  were 
the  onion  sandwiches. 

-1-305-J- 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

Yes,  even  Bridgeport  was  tinged  with  city 
life.  I  need  no  longer  observe,  for  I  knew  the 
road  and  the  people  on  either  side  of  it,  and 
while  we  had  seventy  miles  to  go,  I  knew  I  could 
take  the  train  in,  yet  deceive  the  wariest  reader 
into  believing  that  I  had  covered  the  distance 
notebook  in  hand. 

Here  at  last  was  the  opportunity  for  the  re- 
sume of  the  trip,  for  figuring  out  about  those 
arrows,  for  asking  why  I  had  not  given  more 
time  to  the  scenery  and  less  to  myself,  for  won- 
dering if  I  had  really  made  fun  of  the  Illustrator 
When  I — really — like  the  man,  for  mentally  re- 
tracting anything  that  would  give  offence  to  any 
one.  I  have  never  been  troubled  with  a  sense  of 
pride,  and  I  have  always  found  that  "eating  my 
words  "  was  not  a  bad  meal  after  all. 

I  would  have  time,  also,  to  think  of  the  mis- 
statements  I  have  made,  the  confusing  of  histori- 
cal events,  and  that  chief  crime  to  a  locality: 
calling  a  good  road  a  bad  one.  I  grew  a  little 
afraid  to  sit  alone  in  the  back  seat,  alone  with 
this  responsibility,  and  I  communicated  this  to 

W ,  who  suggested  that  he  and  I  make  the 

trip  together  and  stow  away  the  chauffeur  in 
the  rear.  The  boy  climbed  in  among  the  folde- 
rols,  and  I  did  not  look  back  at  him,  for  I  knew 
he  was  eating  peanuts  and  would  have  to  be  repri- 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

manded.  He  was  alone  with  peanuts  and  his 
girl,  and  the  Illustrator  and  I  were  alone,  as  we 
had  been  so  many  times  on  night  flights  through 
the  Latin  countries. 

One  may  ask  why  I  did  not  sit  on  the  front 
seat  with  him  earlier  on  the  tour.  And  it  is 
difficult  to  answer  this  unless  the  reader  is  a 
nervous  woman  herself  and  hopes  to  "  hold  him." 
I  have  never  outgrown  the  measuring  eye.  The 
eye  that  sees  the  dog  or  the  child  or  the  oncoming 
motor,  and  wonders  just  how  far  we  can  go  before 
we  will  have  to  turn  out  for  these  objects.  And 
this  is  not  conducive  to  the  "  rest  and  change  " 
for  which  one  makes  a  trip. 

Nor  is  it  conducive  to  the  good  temper  of  the 
driver.  In  early  motoring  days  I  could  not  be- 
lieve that  the  Illustrator  saw  the  dog  or  the  child 
or  the  oncoming  motor.  I  alone  saw  them,  and 
out  of  kindness  of  heart  I  would  tell  him  of  these 
objects  ahead.  He  was  always  gentle  about  it  up 
till  noon,  but  later  in  the  day  he  would  appear  to 
be  talking  through  clenched  teeth  as  he  would  re- 
spond, "  I  see  it,  I  see  it,"  or  sometimes  merely, 
"I  have  eyes,  dear." 

As  I  became  more  skilled  in  motoring  etiquette 
I  ceased  telling  him,  flatly,  what  I  saw,  but  re- 
ferred to  the  obstacles  in  a  veiled  manner  as 
though  from  an  affectionate  interest  in  them. 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

"  That's  a  curious-looking  dog  ahead,"  I  would 
exclaim;  or,  "  What  a  pretty  little  child  running 
down  the  road! ";  or,  again,  "  Do  look  at  this  on- 
coming car,  what  make  can  it  be?" 

But  it  did  not  deceive  him,  and  I  admit  it  was 
rather  mean,  for  in  nine  years'  motoring  through 
the  crowded  ways  of  Europe  there  is  only  the 
toll  of  a  dog — and  the  acquiring  of  some  mysteri- 
ous chicken  feathers  on  the  radiator. 

Another  sensation  which  I  have  never  been  able 
to  overcome,  and  which  other  motorists  may 
share,  is  the  one  that  creeps  over  me  as  we  pass 
a  sleek  horse.  I  always  feel  that  we  are  going 
to  take  a  slice  off  that  animal's  side  as  it  pro- 
trudes richly  over  the  shaft.  In  my  vanity,  I  feel 
our  own  car  to  be  as  big  as  a  motor  bus,  and  that 
nothing  can  hurt  us.  There  are  women  who  say 
that  they  don't  look  down  the  road  as  they  travel. 
But  as  long  as  I  sat  up  in  front,  it  seemed  to 
be  necessary  to  look,  that  we  would  surely  run 
into  something  if  I  didn't  look,  even  though  I 
controlled  my  vocal  exclamations  and  turned  them 
into  gay  snatches  of  song. 

There  was  one  emotion  which  could  be  classed 
as  satisfactory  during  those  early  days,  and  that 
was  occasioned  by  the  relieving  discovery,  when- 
ever we  passed  some  scary  object,  that  our  car 
didn't  "  shy."  Although  I  knew  the  vehicle  we 
-j-  308  -*-. 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

were  travelling  in  was  propelled  by  mechanical 
means,  I  could  not  help  hoping,  for  a  long  time, 
that  paper  would  not  blow  up  the  road,  nor  little 
boys  yell  at  us.  And  I  always  felt  a  glow  of 
kindliness  for  the  motor  when  it  ran  over  the 
paper  with  perfect  sangfroid,  and,  restrainedly, 
did  not  run  over  the  little  boys. 

When  we  acquired  a  back  seat  I  was  relegated 
to  it,  where  I  could  hide  behind  the  driver's  back, 
and  enjoy  the  wayside  scenes  which,  as  scenes 
ahead,  might  have  filled  me  with  concern.  I  can- 
not recommend  a  back  seat  too  strongly  as  a 
method  for  "  preserving  the  home."  How  few  of 
us  realize,  as  we  fly  to  all  parts  of  the  country 
for  easy  divorces,  that  the  real  trouble  began 
with  the  first  runabout! 

But  at  night  the  roads  are  clear,  one  can  lie 
with  one's  head  on  the  back  of  the  seat  and  watch 
the  stars  without  feeling  any  necessity  for  watch- 
ing for  chickens.  Or  one  can  talk  to  the  driver, 
for  the  motor  seems  to  work  more  quietly.  The 
headlights  make  a  lane  for  us  which  we  cannot 
run  into,  no  matter  how  fast  we  go.  At  a  curve 
in  the  road  one  might  fear  the  light  will  not  get 
there  in  time  to  show  the  turn,  but  this  is  always 
managed. 

It  was  delightfully  wicked — this  going  over 
famous  country  without  paying  the  smallest  at- 
.-*•  309  -*- 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

tention  to  it.  There  was  once  a  member  of  a 
Cook's  party  who  came  back  on  the  boat  with  us. 
She  was  worn  out  from  sightseeing,  for  their 
guide  had  kept  them  at  it  early  and  late.  "  But 
do  you  know,"  she  said  with  a  hysterical  giggle, 
looking  over  her  shoulder  as  though  she  expected 
Monsieur  Cook  to  pounce  down  upon  her,  "  in 
Geneva  I  didn't  go  into  the  cathedral  at  all ! " 

One  knows  Geneva  for  its  jewelled  lake  but 
not  for  its  cathedral,  just  as  we  had  known  these 
little  towns  we  were  passing  through  for  pleasant 
places  to  spend  a  week-end.  We  give  little  time 
to  think  of  a  shaping  of  a  country,  of  the  suffer- 
ings that  must  be  endured  before  these  present- 
day  comforts — before  this  graciousness  of  coun- 
try-house life — can  be  offered  to  us. 

Although  I  had  not  expected  it,  as  we  sped 
over  the  Boston  Post  Road  in  the  quiet  of  the 
night,  this  came  to  me  more  strongly  than  when 
fortified  by  historical  facts.  Our  humming  motor 
was  the  evolution  of  the  post-boy  on  horseback, 
of  the  mail-coach,  and,  in  the  wake  of  that  lumber- 
ing vehicle,  of  the  rude  efforts  of  rail  and  steam. 
What  will  come  after  us — I  wonder — after  this 
present  day  of  wonders. 

A  gentle  wind  arose  when  we  reached  Norwalk 
and  we  stopped  for  an  instant  before  the  Royal 
James  Inn  to  put  on  heavier  coats.  The  proprie- 

-*-  310  -«- 


I   V. 

'V/att*      rtMK- 

M»«M«.k.«.      O«T    ST*     "A 


THK   I{()V.\I.  J. \\IKS   |\\,  \OHW.\I.K 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

tor  strolled  down  to  greet  us,  and,  because  I 
didn't  have  to  be,  I  grew  interested  in  the  old 
house.  The  land  on  which  it  stands  was  a  grant 
to  the  James  family  from  an  English  king.  The 
landlord  sent  us  a  letter  with  a  more  complete 
history  later,  the  main  romantic  facts  lingering  in 
my  memory  that  one  of  the  Jameses  had  expected 
to  marry  "  a  young  lady  of  the  town,"  and  had 
built  this  house  for  her,  but  ere  it  was  completed 
she  had  married  some  one  else. 

This  proved  a  shock  to  Mr.  James,  who  kept 
the  house  closed  for  twenty  years,  which  may 
have  been  one  of  the  reasons  that  it  eventually 
became  an  inn.  The  idea  is  more  embracing  than 
Mr.  James  may  have  entertained,  for  it  now  gives 
enjoyment  to  many  happy  couples  instead  of  one. 
The  thought  of  the  jilt  must  be  disquieting  to 
prospective  young  husbands  engaged  in  building 
dove-cotes,  especially  in  these  days  of  carpenters' 
strikes.  And  one  would  advise  them  to  put  a 
time  limit  on  the  period  of  construction. 

The  proprietor  stood  under  the  sheltering  elms 
and  waved  us  good-bye,  as  not  many  other  pro- 
prietors had  done — although  they  usually  had 
elms  to  stand  under.  I  settled  back  and  thought 
about  elms.  New  Haven,  the  "Elm  City?" 
Every  New  England  town  has  a  just  claim  to 
that  title.  How  they  grow  for  the  Yankees— 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

these  trees!  How  they  grow  for  all  people  and 
villages!  Whoever  heard  of  an  elm  forest?  They 
are  like  dogs,  they  must  have  human  beings  about 
them.  They  are  the  lovely  watch  trees  of  man's 
habitation.  They  are  the  true  family  trees  of 
this  part  of  our  country.  They  are 

"  Stamford  "  said  the  Illustrator. 

I  looked  uneasily  up  a  street  which  leads  to 
New  Canaan.  I  have  a  confession  to  make  to 
the  owner  of  a  New  Canaan  country  house.  I 
have  often  wondered  how  I  could  manage  to 
break  the  news  to  her,  and  it  has  occurred  to  me 
that  if  I  put  it  in  a  book  she  may  read  it,  and 
forgive  me  without  my  blundering  through  an 
apology. 

It  all  comes  of  raising  chickens  scientifically. 
No,  it  comes  of  going  to  church  Sunday  morn- 
ing. Or,  perhaps,  it  comes  from  not  being  a 
stern  hostess  and  forcing  guests  to  go  to  church 
While  she  was  gone  I  strayed  among  the  chick- 
ens and  some  got  out,  and  in  a  wild  panic  (not 
the  chickens  in  a  panic,  they  were  enjoying  them- 
selves in  the  flower  beds)  I  caught  them  and 
threw  them  over  the  wire  nettings  back  into  their 
homes.  But  in  my  panic  I  threw  the  wrong 
chickens  into  the  wrong  homes,  and  now  there 
is  a  blending  of  Plymouth  Rocks  and  White  Leg- 
horn and  Black  Spanish  on  that  scientific  farm 


A  LAST  SKETCH  AND  A  NIGHT  RUN 

which  my  hostess,  with  her  fixed  principles  about 
the  rearing  of  everything,  cannot  possibly  under- 
stand. But  she  does  from  now  on,  and  that  is 
another  thing  for  which  I  hope  to  be  forgiven. 

Then  came  Greenwich,  and  Rye,  with  white 
doors  along  the  way  closed  for  the  first  time 
against  us.  I  patted  the  arm  of  my  seat  affec- 
tionately, for  this  staunch  little  car  had  done  away 
with  the  horrors  of  catching  trains  for  Sunday 
visiting;  of  early  morning  snappings  at  each  other 
because  we  had  to  leave  on  schedule  time;  of 
watching  the  hour  at  country  dinner-tables  so 
that  we  could  get  the  crowded  last  train  back. 
How  these  annoyances  have  faded  from  our 
memory,  just  as  the  recollection  of  the  pale  rays 
from  gas  illumination  has  been  effaced  by  the 
glare  of  electricity! 

We  were  now  among  the  inns  of  gentle  name 
and  vigorous  hospitality.     The  voice  of  W- 
was  heard  now  and  then,  not  romantically  but 
reminiscently,   as   we  passed  them  by:   "Got   a 
drink  there — dried  your  hat  here — they  stole  the 
wrench  at  that  joint."     Not  romantic,  but  life, 
and  more  of  life  before  us,  long  stretches  of  life. 
For  to  all  death  may  be  near  to  the  next  man- 
but  not  to  us.     It  must  be  a  soldier's  sustaining 
thought — his  own  invulnerability. 

I  may  have  been  thinking  about  the  first  man 
-4-313-*- 


who  put  up  the  first  arrow  to  mark  the  way,  so 
that  I  did  not  notice  the  distance  covered,  but  from 
out  the  semi-gloom  of  Bronx  Park  the  sharp  voice 
of  an  officer  cried:  "Headlights  out!"  And 
we  were  in  New  York. 

We  waited  for  our  chauffeur  to  leap  from 
the  back  seat,  probably  wearing  the  derby,  to 
do  his  last  duty.  He  did  not  stir.  I  had  im- 
agined him  wrapped  in  dreams,  and  so  he  was — 
but  with  his  mouth  open,  snoring  comfortably. 
It  was  trying,  as  I  remembered  his  anxiety  to 
get  to  Her.  But  the  Illustrator  and  I  had  re- 
mained awake — and,  on  second  thoughts,  it  was 
rather  entrancing  that  the  middle-aged  couple  in 
the  front  seat  were  more  stirred  than  youth  by  the 
warmth  of  swift  motion,  and  scented  darkness, 
and  far-off  villages,  and  Fifth  Avenue — inviting 
us  the  length  of  its  mirroring  asphalt. 

We  did  find  a  new  elevator-boy  who  said,  when 
we  mumbled  something  about  ourselves,  that 
"  Mistah  an'  Mis'  Hale  am  out  of  town."  But 
we  took  off  the  baggage  just  the  same,  for  Mistah 
an'  Mis'  Hale  am  at  HOME. 


THE   END 


314 


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